


Homo Homini Lupus est

by dioscureantwins



Series: This is where I began [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Boarding School, Brotherly Love, Character Study, Drama, Emotional Hurt, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Kid Mycroft, Kid Sherlock, Kidfic, Kidlock, Sherlock's history in his own words
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-10
Updated: 2013-03-27
Packaged: 2017-11-20 19:57:42
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 10
Words: 70,139
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/589094
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dioscureantwins/pseuds/dioscureantwins
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock doesn’t understand why the coffin has to be so big, the little pieces would easily fit in a much smaller coffin and he wonders how they can be sure the shreds lying in the coffin are actually parts of Daddy. Suppose there is a piece of Mr Norton lying there in the coffin as well, or Mr Percy-Fitz or Miss Lewis, the other people that were blown up together with Daddy?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Homo Homini Lupus est, chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Author's note: in this series I’m exploring Sherlock’s past and his relationship with Mycroft, from his earliest beginnings up to the time he ends up sharing the flat with John at Baker Street 221B. Book 1 dwelt on Sherlock’s discovery of the world around him. In this book things are going to change, fast. I’d be very happy if you’d join me for the trip. I’ll try to update once a week or every two weeks
> 
> Beta: the great susako. Endlessly patient, full of smart suggestions and a simply marvelous beta

_”Shall we go for a walk in the woods?” Daddy asks._

_“Yes, Daddy. I’d love to,” Sherlock answers._

_“Come on then.”_

_Together they walk down the gardens. They cross the big clover field and wave at John who’s busy near the apiary. Daddy opens the gate that’s set in the wall just at the end of the orchard and they enter the wood. A profusion of bluebells stretches away in front of them, greatly outnumbering the quantities flowering in the park. A gentle wind stirs the tender green canopy of the beech trees, sending waves of a lighter blue rippling over the flowers. The floor of the forest transforms before their eyes into a calmly undulating sea flowing around the poles of a pier built for giants. The red flash of a squirrel shoots up the bark of a tree to their right. Sherlock’s ears detect the scuttling of small animals beneath the floral carpet. Above the flowers silence reigns absolute, as if a great glassy dome has been blown over the forest to shelter it from the rest of the world._

_Daddy chooses the path straight ahead that leads to the hidden glade. Sherlock holds his hand._

_“If we’re very quiet we might see a deer,” Daddy whispers, squeezing Sherlock’s hand. Daddy’s hand is dry and warm around Sherlock’s. Sherlock nods in acknowledgement of Daddy’s remark. He daren’t utter his consent for fear the pitch of his voice will shatter the glass wall protecting the forest._

_In the glade a stag is standing, a proud adult with great antlers. It hasn’t heard them and can’t smell them as they’re downwind from the animal. They stand hidden behind a tree to observe him, the sweet smell from the disturbed bluebells almost overpowering. The stag grazes languidly, raising its head from time to time to with twitching ears to check whether there’s any reason for alarm._

_“He’s beautiful,” Sherlock finds himself whispering. He claps his hand in front of his mouth for he has spoken. But the quiet scene before him remains, his hand is still warm and safe inside Daddy’s, the great trees still rise around him from their bright blue bed. He breathes in relief._

_Suddenly the stag jerks up its head, ears turning and twisting nervously. The head swivels and its gone with a few high leaps. Daddy stares after it._

_“What was that,” he says. “Why did the beast …”_

_He doesn’t finish the sentence. A look of fear flares up in his eyes and leaks out, dripping slowly over his face, conquering and twisting his features into a mask of anxiety._

_“Run, Sherlock!” he shouts and Sherlock hardly recognises Daddy’s voice for the dulcet dark tones are wrenched into a high pitch of acute fright. Sherlock is swept up in Daddy’s arms and Daddy starts running, his long legs leaping across the ground in an imitation of the stag’s graceful arches. Until now Sherlock didn’t know Daddy could run so fast but he darts along the path at an impossible speed, clutching Sherlock close against his chest, unhampered by Sherlock’s weight. The tendons in his long neck are stretched taut around his furiously working throat._

_Over Daddy’s shoulder Sherlock can see the sky behind them has been shrouded over with the cloak of a night that’s darker than the black velvet of the curtains in Daddy’s study. No star, no ray of moonlight to ease the deep, dank dusk. A foul smell wafts up from the forest floor as the bluebells are disturbed by Daddy’s running feet and upon looking down Sherlock finds they’ve been painted black and the bells are snapping at Daddy’s ankles, some of them managing to tear at the tweed of his trousers._

_He clutches his arms tighter around Daddy’s neck and buries his head in Daddy’s shoulder so he doesn’t have to look. Next to his ear he can hear Daddy panting with the effort of running while holding Sherlock in his arms but Daddy is big and strong and fast and he can run like this for hours. He will run out of the forest, through the gate and safely back home again._

_The screech, when it comes, chills every nerve in his body._

_“God, please, no,” Daddy cries. “Don’t look, Sherlock.”_

_He looks. Now he sees the blackness isn’t simply caused by a sudden absence of light. It’s a mass, a great dark heaving mass of black birds flying in neatly packed rows, effectively blocking the passage of the rays of the sun. His ears are pierced by the shrill shrieks that rent the air asunder._

_He watches in fascinated horror. One of the birds accelerates and heads away from the others. It sweeps down with all the determined deliberation of a bird of prey closing in for the kill, long-clawed talons stretched away from the body. It falls down upon them with increasing speed. As the beast nears them, the individual aspects of the head start revealing themselves and Sherlock recognises the bird’s features as his mother’s. Its beak is drawn apart in a ghastly mockery of a smile._

_“Hello, darling,” the harpy breathes. “Aren’t you glad to see me?”_

_Sherlock ducks his head to hide behind Daddy’s shoulder. He finds he is swung down on the ground._

_“Safe,” Daddy says. “Come on, Sherlock.”_

_A sleek black car stands solidly waiting to shelter them. Daddy smiles down on Sherlock while his hand reaches for the car’s door handle._

***

“Daddy, Daddy!”

“Sherlock, wake up boy! Hey, Sherlock.” His shoulder is shaken forcefully. Upon opening his eyes he immediately screws them shut against the sharp light hitting his pupils, catching a glimpse of John’s anxious face hovering next to him.

“Sherlock, come on.” John’s hand paws at his upper arm.

“The light,” he manages.

“Oh, all right. I’ll lower it, but you had a nightmare just now,” John’s voice moves away from the bed and comes back again a few seconds later. “Here, you’d better drink some water.”

Sherlock sits up and extends his hand to accept the glass. He glances around him.  
A surge of wonder at John’s presence in his bedroom fleets through him while he gulps down some liquid. 

He looks up at John as he hands the glass back at him. John’s eyes are puffy and bloodshot, his ginger lashes clinging and wet. Now Sherlock remembers. He doesn’t have to close his eyes to relive his dream because he’s watched the end over and over again in Daddy’s study. He kept pushing the knobs on the remote to rewind the tape and start it anew.

“Do you think you’ll be able to sleep again?” John asks. “Mr Talbot said you could have half a pill if you want to.”

“Have you been sleeping, John?”

“Yes, I believe I have, a little. Until your screaming woke me. It must have been a very bad dream.” He nestles Sherlock’s right hand between his callused palms. “Your hand is cold. Should I find you another blanket? Where does Nanny keep those for you?”

“You’ve been crying,” Sherlock says.

“Yes, I have.”

“Why? Mr Talbot hasn’t cried. And you’re not a woman like cook or Nanny or Mummy.”

“Well, everybody is different. Maybe I cry more easily than most other men.”

“Are you sad Daddy is dead?”

“Yes, of course Sherlock. Your Daddy …” John’s voice falls away. The red colour of his eyes intensifies and fresh tears start rolling down his cheeks. He drops Sherlock’s hand so he can bury his face in his hands, pushing the heels of his palms against his eye sockets. “I’m sorry, Sherlock, I’m sorry.”

Sherlock says nothing; he traces the invisible lines of the Plough between the stars showered over the fabric of his pyjamas. John’s shoulders heave with the effort to stop his crying. He sniffles and gulps deeply several times before dropping his hands away from his face. “I’m sorry,” he repeats.

“Shall I get _you_ some water, John?”

A weak smile fleets over John’s mouth. “No, thank you, Sherlock. That won’t be necessary.” He spreads his knees and bends his head between them for a minute. After he’s come up again he says: “You look exactly like he did when he was your age. Exactly the same.”

He pushes himself up out of the chair and walks over to the air mattress in front of the closet.

“We both should try to get some sleep, Sherlock. Tomorrow will be another long day.”

***

The four of them hurried to Daddy’s study to watch the news after Mr Talbot’s announcement. The moment the car exploded on the television screen Mummy threw a fit of hysterics that brought a yet unaware Nanny flying to the room. 

Exactly that moment the bell had rung. Two police officers were standing at the front door to bring them the news they were already aware of. 

Mummy lay shrieking and wailing on the rug in Daddy’s room, thrashing her head against the floor and tearing at her hair while Nanny sat crouched on her old stiff knees beside her, vainly trying to calm her with shushing noises. 

Sherlock huddled as closely as possible to Mycroft on the sofa, his knees drawn up in front of his chest to protect himself against the onslaught of Mummy’s grief. Mycroft’s gaze had attached itself to the ceiling while he appeared to be forcing himself through a series of deep breathing exercises, puffing up his cheeks and setting the air escaping again with small deliberate whiffs. His hand was clasping Sherlock’s in a wrenching grip that had left bright red marks on Sherlock’s skin for a quarter of an hour after Mycroft had been forced to let go.

Mr Talbot marched into the room and flicked his eyes over the scene.

“I’ve sent those policemen away again,” he said. “They didn’t know any more than we do at this stage and the less strangers loitering about here the better. I surmise people from both the London police and the Ministry will arrive here shortly. I’ve called the doctor and he promised to be here in a quarter of an hour.”

He crouched next to Mummy. “Mrs Holmes, can you hear me? Please try to contain yourself in front of your sons. Let me and Nanny help you up to your room.”

Mummy lashed out at him with a sharp-nailed, desperately clawing hand. A look of distaste fleeted over Mr Talbot’s face before he hoisted her up in his arms as easily as if she were nothing but a sack of flour and strode with her out of the room instructing Nanny to follow him. Nanny trailed after him in a daze, any sharp remark about inappropriate behaviour frozen in her mouth.

After ten minutes Mr Talbot returned to find both Mycroft and Sherlock still seeking shelter on the sofa, like a pair of sodden survivors holding onto the rocks of the small uninhabited island where they’ve been washed ashore after the shipwreck that orphaned them.

“This won’t do,” Mr Talbot announced, wringing the remote out of Mycroft’s clutched fingers and flicking off the television set. He snapped his own fingers closely in front of Mycroft’s face next. 

“Mycroft, come out of it, try and focus, will you? I need you to find me your father’s papers so we can start telephoning the right people to help you deal with this situation. Your mother won’t be of any assistance, we’ll have to do this together. I asked Cook to make you a strong cup of coffee. We’ll go down to the kitchen now and you’ll drink it and you _will remain calm_.”

He turned towards Sherlock and gently wrenched his fist out of Mycroft’s hand.

“You go fetch John, Sherlock. Tell him he’s wanted here.”

***

Daddy’s head and shoulders are visible above the roof of the car. The shiny exterior mirrors the upper storeys of the houses lining the street. Daddy is waiting for the chauffeur to open the door of the car for him, turning to the man on his right to tell him something. A smile spreads over his face at the man’s answer while Daddy lowers to place himself in the backseat of the car. 

A huge explosion, like that time Sherlock threw one of Mummy’s hairspray cans into the fire he had started near the wall of the estate, only much bigger and louder, and when the smoke clears the car is gone, and the chauffeur is gone, the man next to Daddy is gone and Daddy himself is gone as well. All that remains is a blackened mass covered with an indeterminable shiny, slimy substance with little bits sticking out of it. The silence is deafening for about thirty seconds. Then the screaming starts. 

That’s the moment Sherlock presses the rewind button on the remote. 

Out of the explosion the car is rebuilt and Daddy exits the car with amazing alacrity to stand smiling at the man next to him. 

Daddy’s head and shoulders are visible above the roof of the car.

***

The house has been transformed overnight. A steady stream of visitors flows from the hall to the yellow drawing room to Daddy’s study and back to the hall again. His birthday cake has vanished from the sideboard and been replaced by an enormous stack of sandwiches and walnut date cakes which are consumed with great avidity by the waiting gentlemen.

Mycroft is either upstairs in their parents’ – or now rather Mummy’s – bedroom or locked up with Mr Talbot and Daddy’s solicitor in Daddy’s study. The gentlemen waiting in the yellow drawing room wish to speak to Mycroft and Mr Talbot alone or in the presence of the solicitor. They’re all dressed in black or dark grey, a great flock of ravens or vultures roosting in their sunny drawing room, waiting for the one who’s currently engaged with Mycroft and Mr Talbot to finish his business so they can go in and start theirs. The moment one leaves, another arrives to take his place.

Brenda and Mary keep jogging between the drawing room and the kitchen with heavy trays laden with coffee and tea and refreshments. John alternates between dashing for the bell or making a beeline to answer the telephone, while accepting and handing out the visitors’ coats. 

In the kitchen Cook bustles about muttering and swearing softly beneath her breath, swiping a flour-streaked hand over her teary swollen eyes every now and then. Yet she finds a few minutes to press Sherlock against her bosom every time he enters her abode in his search for some relief, giving vent to her own shock and consternation in a wild ramble of incoherent words: “It’s not right, it isn’t. – The best ones are always the first to go. – They must be horrid people, Sherlock, to decide to blow up one of the nicest men to be found in England. – Oh, your poor mother, she must be suffering so.” 

After a final tight embrace that nearly stifles him Cook slips a pear tartlet into his hand and shoos him away, saying she’s busy and he should make himself scarce. A few hours later he’s back and swept up into her arms again. He throws the tartlets into the rose garden for the robins and blackbirds to find.

***

Oh, how he wishes he could crawl into Mycroft’s bed to snuggle up close against Mycroft’s chest and relax into the soothing warmth of his body heat as it spreads beneath the blankets. But Mycroft is cooped up together with Nanny in their parents’ room at night because Mummy has apparently said she can’t sleep without both of them beside her. 

In recognition of this arrangement Mr Talbot decreed the first evening both he and John will take alternative turns sleeping in Sherlock’s room for the next few days. Sherlock is already sitting in his bed when Mr Talbot enters his room dressed in striped flannel pyjamas and a dark blue velvet robe. Sherlock does his utmost not to gape at his tutor. 

Mr Talbot ignores Sherlock’s astonishment with a perfect show of obliviousness. He eyes the bedding on the air mattress with a vague abhorrence before seating himself in the windowsill. 

“What have you been doing today, Sherlock?” he asks. “I’m sorry none of us have been able to give you any proper attention. It’s all … there’s so much to arrange. And Mycroft is in utter shock. I wonder whether he’s heard one word that was said to him today.”

His hand jerks up to fiddle with his moustache. The inadvertent gesture somewhat jeopardises his showmanship of ruthless capability and induces Sherlock to jump out of bed and throw himself onto his teacher’s lap in a wild abandonment of propriety and despondent search for consolation. Beneath him he can feel Mr Talbot’s body back away in initial reticence before settling back into the touch and allowing Sherlock to slump against him. His arms hover uncertainly before acquiescing into the intimacy as well, cradling Sherlock close in a cocoon that feels safe despite its unfamiliarity. 

“You’ll manage. Somehow you and Mycroft will manage.”

Sherlock bobs his head up and down to confirm Mr Talbot’s utterance. His nose brushes the soft fabric of Mr Talbot’s dressing gown and he almost sniggles as he identifies the lavender trail of Nanny’s soap beneath the strong scent of Mr Talbot’s cigarettes. 

Now Sherlock dares to present the idea that sprang up in him while he was practicing on his violin.

“Mr Talbot,” he says.

“Yes, Sherlock.”

“I want to play something for Daddy. At his funeral. Mr Mancini and me have been studying a Beethoven scherzo lately. It’s very short so it won’t take up much time, but I would really, really like to. For Daddy. I was going to play it for him yesterday evening, for my birthday, but now … Do you think Mummy would agree? Seeing as it is for Daddy.”

Mr Talbot is quiet for a very long time. His voice, when he finally starts speaking, is turbid, barely distinguishable in the shadowed room.

“That’s such a marvellous idea, Sherlock,” he states. “We … this household … everyone would truly appreciate you playing for us, for your father. But I’m afraid it’s impossible.”

Sherlock starts to object but Mr Talbot’s lays a gentle hand on Sherlock’s knee before continuing: “Your father wasn’t merely your father, and Mycroft’s and your mother’s husband, he was much more than that. Your father _was_ England, Sherlock. Yesterday, in killing your father, the IRA dealt our country a heavy blow. Rather they’d targeted our Prime Minister, that would have been easier to overcome.”

Mr Talbot breathes deeply. “Hundreds of people will be attending his funeral I’m afraid. It’s going to be a massive affair. We won’t be able to fit all the people wishing to attend into the village church. We’ve had to order tents and television screens and a sound system for the people that will have to remain outside during the service. The seating is a nightmare of sensitivities and bruised egos.”

Mr Talbot sighs. “Tents will have to be erected here for the reception as well. We hired the services of a catering service, much against Cook’s protests, but she was forced to agree even she wouldn’t be able to provide the required amounts of food.”

His hand squeezes Sherlock’s knee. “We do realise your father would categorise his own funeral as utterly dull and boring. However, there’s no avoidance. This funeral isn’t going to be about your father and his family, Sherlock. It’s about England. Mycroft managed to wriggle the most important concession out of the negotiations regarding the day’s protocol. At least there won’t be any singing of hymns, which your father would have abhorred. Mr Mancini and a friend of his will play the _Spring sonata_ instead. So Beethoven’s wonderful music will be heard, Sherlock. Brought to life by a man who loved your father well.”

Sherlock has been struggling to hide his growing disappointment at Mr Talbot’s words, fighting the burn brimming behind his eyeballs. To save both himself and his tutor the indignity of having to ask and confirm whether he understands he assents with a firm gesture.

He just wants to sleep now.

***

_”Shall we go for a walk in the woods?” Daddy asks._

_“Yes, Daddy. I’d love to,” Sherlock answers._

_“Come on then.”_

***

Downstairs in the hall a big black coffin rests on a dais. It’s surrounded by a lake of flowery wreaths that keeps widening in haphazard circles. Between receiving all the visitors John now also has to hurry to the front door constantly to accept another token of people’s desire to announce to the world they thought it of the utmost importance to openly commiserate with Sherlock Holmes’ family after his death.

The coffin would be big enough to fit Daddy if he was still in one piece, but he isn’t. Sherlock saw Daddy being blown up on the television so he knows that’s not his Daddy lying hidden in the black casket. One minute Daddy was right on the screen, talking and smiling, and the next moment there was this big blast and then Daddy was gone, reduced to a gory slime with small bits sticking out. 

Sherlock doesn’t understand why the coffin has to be so big, the little pieces would easily fit in a much smaller coffin and he wonders how they can be sure the shreds lying in the coffin are actually parts of Daddy. Suppose there is a piece of Mr Norton lying there in the coffin as well, or Mr Percy-Fitz or Miss Lewis, the other people that were blown up together with Daddy? 

Placed slightly towards the end of the coffin, where Daddy’s shoulders would be if he were whole, an ornate silver frame has been placed. Inside the frame is a photograph of Daddy laughing out at the world, the corners of his mouth drawn so far apart a glimpse of his teeth flashes between his lips, his eyes alive with merriment. Any moment he can wink at Sherlock to signal all is well and Sherlock needn’t fidget. But then, Daddy’s not the one that can hear the sounds escaping from his bedroom. 

***

He knocks on the door of his parents’ bedroom and waits until Nanny’s voice bids him entrance. He sticks his head around the door with utter caution. The curtains of the room are drawn against the soft wintry light. On the bed Mummy lies tossing and moaning.

“Hello, Sherlock,” Nanny whispers. Her voice is thick and choked with tears. She draws him close and kisses him on his forehead. “Mummy is asleep, dear, finally. Oh God, she’s suffering so. Did you sleep at all, Sherlock? I’m so sorry I can’t be with you but Mummy needs me. Come in, sit with me a while.” He takes a step into the room in the direction of the chair Nanny has indicated to him.

“Sherlock!” Mummy shoots up from the mattress and looks around her, head swivelling wildly. Sherlock stares at her in open-mouthed apprehension. 

The figure rising from the bedclothes is nothing but a slipshod effigy of the fine lady that sat reading her book with demurely crossed ankles in her elegant drawing room less than forty-eight hours ago. The shimmering reddish-blond waterfall that was Mummy’s hair has turned into a drab gory river of grey, the blue eyes are dulled to a faint listless vapidity, her glowing healthy skin is veiled with a dusky shroud. Sherlock can’t believe he’s looking at Mummy, she must be a ghost, preparing herself to follow Daddy into the afterlife, to throw herself onto his funeral pyre like a Hindu widow. Mr Talbot has told him all about that ancient custom. 

Mummy returns his stare with a long hard look, cast between rapidly blinking eyelids.

“Sherlock?” she finally asks. Her voice is rough, apprehensive, wavering with a fearful hope which hardly dare find articulation for itself. Her eyes flicker with a barely noticeable light.

Nanny nudges his shoulder for him to answer.

“Yes—,” he swallows, choking on his Adam’s apple which has become a foreign object in his throat: “—Mummy.”

The sound of his voice makes her flinch. Her eyes flare up briefly before their shimmering is snuffed out again. She drops down onto the cushions.

“You’re not him,” she says. “You’re nothing but an impostor. Horrible and wicked. Please have the decency to remove yourself from this room at least.” She turns her back on him and curls up on herself. Sherlock stands nailed to the floor, his eyes glued to the shallow rise and fall of Mummy’s narrow ribcage beneath the blanket. He can feel Nanny’s hand feebly pawing his shoulder in a failed attempt at reassurance.

“Oh Sherlock, don’t listen. Mummy doesn’t know what she’s saying … ” Nanny starts. 

A dreadful sound spirals up from the bed. A wretched mewl of utter loneliness and despair, gaining in volume until an animal howl of grief and pain rings through the room. Nanny’s hand falls away from his shoulder. Sherlock turns on his heels and flees the room and the house, out into the garden to the safety of his tree house. 

He sits there for hours, shivering with the cold, staring into the dripping wet mist. 

*** 

_”Shall we go for a walk in the woods?” Daddy asks._

_“Yes, Daddy. I’d love to,” Sherlock answers._

_“Come on then.”_

***

“Daddy, Daddy!”

“Sherlock, Sherlock! Wake up, wake up for God’s sake! Hey, Sherlock.” 

His shoulder is shaken forcefully. He forces himself up out of the dream with a gasp, like a drowning body breaking through the surface of the vicious liquid that was trapping him, pulling him under in a drowning embrace. John’s worried face is hovering above him, barely visible in the soft light of the lamp on the night table.

“Jesus, Sherlock. You frightened me. I’m the one that’s supposed to be enjoying nightmares, remember? Here have some water.”

He heaves himself upright and clutches the glass with a shaking hand, gulps some water and huddles the beaker against his chest to steady himself. John stands looking down at him, a frown of worry wrinkling his brow.

“Is it those children? It was a nasty business. But you helped them, you solved the case and they’re safe now.”

Sherlock shakes his head, exhaling a shuddered: “No.” His stomach is still full of the celebratory dinner at their favourite Vietnamese. He doesn’t elaborate further. He can’t stop the shivers that keep welling up at his nape to travel down his spine. 

“All right,” John says once he’s grasped the fact Sherlock won’t forward him any information. “God Sherlock, you look like something the cat’s dragged in. Shall I go and make us some tea?”

“You go back to your room and get yourself some more rest, John. I think I’ll sit in the living room for a while. I’m done sleeping for now, I guess. I do apologise for waking you.”

John chuckles. “Well, it’s a relief to find you actually do sleep sometimes. Though I don’t envy you your nightmares, whatever their content may be. Would you mind if I sit with you? I don’t want to start any guilty feelings but I really won’t be able to sleep anymore. I’ll skip my Sunday lie-in this week. A cup of good strong tea… ”

Sherlock waves his hand in a vague gesture. 

“I can’t stop you. You’re a responsible adult.” 

“Right.” John pivots on his heels. “I’ll go put the kettle on.”

Sherlock waits till John has departed the room before pressing his hands against his face. 

Christ, what a ghastly dream. Yet somehow it was so familiar. As a child he must have endured this particular nightmare quite frequently. All this reminiscing certainly isn’t something to encourage, not if it results in reliving these horrors. 

He sighs and rubs his hands vigorously through his hair to ostracise all the useless fear and anxiety from his mind. Daddy has been dead now for how long? He does some counting in his head and groans as he finds the answer. Twenty-six years.

Better get up now. Sometimes living with a flatmate does have distinctive disadvantages. At this particular moment Sherlock could decidedly do without John’s gentle concerned scrutiny of his person. He would greatly have obliged Sherlock by returning to his own bedroom to catch some more sleep. Any other man would probably have done so but not John Hamish Watson. John is way too decent to leave Sherlock sitting alone in their living room after having been woken by his anxious shouting. John won’t probe, won’t ask. He’ll just sit quietly in his chair, reading a medical journal or _The Sports Journal_ till Sherlock is up and ready to divulge whatever he needs to share with John. Or not, which is also fine with John. Whatever Sherlock wants. The patience of the man is excruciating.

The memory of his grimy bedsit at Montague Street flashes up momentarily in his brain to drive the point home that ending up sharing a flat with John Watson at Baker Street is one of the best things that ever happened to him. 

“Tea is ready,” John calls. Which is John-speak for ‘why are you still in your room? I’m worried about you.’ A hot flush of gratefulness floods Sherlock’s chest.

He swings his legs to the floor and grabs his robe from its hook on the door. He walks over to the sideboard to pick up the topmost file from the stack of cold cases Lestrade has graciously supplied for Sherlock’s perusal during acute fits of boredom. 

“Coming,” he calls back.

***

“This won’t do, Mycroft.” 

Mycroft is exhausted. Sherlock may not sleep much but Mycroft must not sleep at all. A brief lull in the tide of visitors has encouraged Sherlock to glide into Daddy’s study and huddle close to his elder brother who sits slumped on the couch. Mr Talbot is standing in front of the hearth with a long list in his hand.

“What won’t do, Mr Talbot?” Mycroft’s voice is but a ghost of his usual concise, clipped tones. His vowels are slurred and his hand shakes as he brings the coffee cup up to his lips to take another sip with the same desperate urgency a drowning victim brings to his first gulp of clean, liquid-free air.

“Sherlock sitting between you and the Home Secretary. You’ll have to devote all your attention to helping your mother make it through the service. Who’s going to look after Sherlock?”

“I gathered Nanny would be of even less use. We could change the order of the line though, I suppose, have Sherlock seated on the side of the wall.”

“No, no, and have Nanny seated next to the Home Secretary? You’ll be sure to do them both a displeasure if you choose to do so. No, there’s nothing for it but to shift the Home Secretary to the second pew and throw somebody out at the back. So that’s the end of a place in the church for …” Mr Talbot squints at the list, “the right honourable Mr Frederick Hunshaw, I’m afraid.”

“I never met the good man, nor have I found any reference to him in Daddy’s files, so I can’t say I’m personally sorry to have him leave the premises,” Mycroft sighs. “But who do you want to sit next to Sherlock then? Would you do it?" He turns to Sherlock. “I’m sorry to be talking about you like this, Sherlock, with you seated next to me. But I’m so very, very tired.”

Mr Talbot coughs behind his hand. “Indeed, Sherlock understands perfectly, Mycroft. No, I thought of John.”

“John?” Mycroft pushes himself up out of his sagged posture. “You can’t be serious, Mr Talbot. Excuse me for doubting your judgment, but John is our _gardener_.”

Mr Talbot smiles. “I’m well aware of the fact, Mycroft. And he was both your father’s oldest friend and one of Sherlock’s as well.”

“I agree, but … Mr Talbot, our _**gardener**_.”

“Yes, how delightfully eccentric. A fitting tribute to your father, I’d say. You’re absolutely right it will be a heavy breach of etiquette. But don’t you think the Home Secretary will appreciate the youngest son of the deceased would rather be seated between the people most dear to him?”

Mycroft’s eyelids fall half-closed. He puts down the cup and purses his lips deliberately.

“Mummy won’t be happy.”

“Will she even notice?”

“Nanny will tell her.”

“I know. But that’s only after the fact.”

Mycroft puts his hands to his face and rubs them forcefully over it on both sides of his nose.

“All right. John in the front pew at Daddy’s funeral. Oh God, Mr Talbot, what a mess. What a bloody big mess.”

***

Daddy was smiling at him out of the frame all through the service but now the casket is three feet down in the ground and he stands looking down with his left hand in John’s safe warm one and he’s taken his handful of cold crumbling earth and he has to throw that onto the lid of Daddy’s coffin. 

Mycroft has already turned and is walking away together with Nanny, both of them supporting Mummy.

“Just throw it, Sherlock,” John urges him. “You’ve got to do it. For your father. It’s all right.”

_No, it’s not. It’s really, really not._

***

“I must say this is one of the most unusual funerals I’ve ever attended.”

“Rather like the man himself.”

“It’s all splendidly organised, though. Have to give them that.”

“They’ve managed to arrange everything in the spirit of the deceased then.”

***

“Christ, what a way to go.”

“Well, it’s quick at least. Far preferable to cancer.”

“You do have a point, I suppose. Still, he was only forty-four. Bit young.”

***

“Wonder who will be the lucky gent to marry the merry widow?”

“She doesn’t appear to be very merry to me.”

“Ah no, not now but mark my words, a year from now on she’ll be on the hunt. I’ve always considered her to be mightily attractive. Holmes was an extremely lucky fellow to have snatched her away at such an early age.”

“You’re not going to divorce Cynthia to marry her, now are you?”

“Never say never, dear fellow.”

***

“Whoever is that long grey chap who the elder boy – isn’t his name Mycroft? – seems intent to have hovering near him at all costs?”

“Don’t you recognise him? You should cast a proper look.”

“Good Lord! But that’s, that’s … ”

“Exactly.”

“Whatever is _he_ doing here?”

“Teaching the Holmes children apparently. And doing a damned good job of it too. My son is in the same school as Mycroft and from what I hear the teachers can’t seem to decide whether to view him as a boon or a scourge.”

“One would expect the children to be sharp with those two as their parents.”

“Yes, and Holmes took the right gamble with the whetstone, it seems. I’ve heard it said both Trevor and Kennington are outbidding each other in an attempt to have him teach their children.”

“But wherever did Holmes find him? He must have dug him up straight out of the muck. I mean, that scandal … Who’d ever imagine engaging an addict to teach his children?”

“Holmes was a thorough eccentric of course. Still, the IRA dealt us a crippling blow.”

***

“Oh Lizzie, do stop the sobbing. You’re making yourself look ridiculous.”

“It’s his funeral. I don’t see why I shouldn’t be sobbing. He was about the only decent one in the whole office. I’ll miss him.”

“You’re only sobbing because you imagined yourself to be in love with him.”

“I am in love with him. And you are too. You said so yourself.”

“I know, and I was. But he’s dead now. No chance of having it off with him now. Not that there ever was when he was alive. God, I hate that ghastly wife of his.”

“You’re a horrid person to say such things, Sylvia.”

“At least I’m not making a fool of myself.”

***

“You could try to look a little less happy.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Nothing, absolutely nothing. Of course you aren’t delighted with the chance his death is offering you.”

“I’m not going to discuss this. Not at the man’s funeral.”

“Oh, come on. Don’t be a hypocrite.”

***

Their dull vacuity and their viciousness. Those struck him most as he wandered amongst them. They were all so full of themselves they hadn’t noticed him while they stood gossiping about his father, his mother, about _them_. That afternoon he had understood he had been living inside a cocoon of pampered protection Daddy had built for them all. How Daddy must have suffered under their ghastly simpering and sucking up to him, only to start wagging their tongues to drag him through the mud the moment he turned their backs on them. 

He despised them, each and every one of them.

***


	2. Homo homini lupus est, chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The freezing weather has turned into a faint drizzle that seeks and finds entrance to wet your skin no matter how many layers of protective clothing you wear. Sherlock is shivering all over by the time the trowel hits the wood of the coffin lid. Five more minutes of shovelling and he can raise the casket from the grave. The excitement coursing through his veins as he pries open the lid with a screwdriver warms him up again.

It’s a full row. John stands shouting at him from the other side of the kitchen table. Sherlock is still seated behind his microscope but he is ready to raise himself any minute now, intending to throw back the chair to add to the dramatics while detailing to the last minutiae what exactly turns sharing a flat with Doctor John Watson into a daily recurring affront he wouldn’t wish on his worst enemies, with the exception of Mycroft and Anderson of course.

Sherlock had been lying on the sofa, thinking over the bewildering threads of their latest case. Three shrivelled, dried out corpses in a deserted warehouse that had the moisture running in rivulets down its walls. They hadn’t been dumped, they had been locked inside to die there, the last one had even started cannibalising one of his –already dead – fellows. The solution was right there in front of his eyes – why didn’t he see it? – when Molly had rung. After some blustering – Sherlock could hear her blushing through the phone – she had told him a third-degree burn had ended up on the slab in her morgue and she believed it might interest him. He had been faintly amused by her glaringly obvious attempt to entice him into a visit to Bart’s. He hadn’t visited the hospital for two weeks in a row. The cases Lestrade had invited him into had been solved either on the spot or after some tinkling in his chemical laboratory in the kitchen. Both the freezer and the fridge were still stocked with enough body parts and tissue samples to keep him happily occupied for another few days. No need yet to go shopping for fresh supplies. A third-degree burn sounded interesting however and lying on the sofa for eight hours straight hadn’t brought him the solution to his puzzle, so he’d agreed to see her in an hour.

It had been modestly exciting. He had scurried about, taking samples, instructing Molly as to the tests he wanted done straight away, becoming thoroughly annoyed when she started about bringing him coffee again. Sherlock had ignored her after that until he was done, deciding he wanted both a piece of the skin of the backside and three fingers to take home for some further tests. Molly had refused at first, saying she couldn’t do that, starting about those ridiculous forms for the ethics committee again, but as usual she had given in after some eye-fluttering and a couple of compliments thrown her way. He had wondered anew why she even bothered with summoning up the protests.

Coming home, Sherlock had put his package into the fridge, then gone searching for the boxes John wants him to store the samples in before putting them into the designated right-hand fridge drawer. While looking into the cupboard the solution of the warehouse corpses case had suddenly hit him – of course, he should have seen it straight away, stupid, stupid, stupid – and he had descended upon the kitchen table to do the tests that would prove he was right, once again.

Ten minutes later John barged in with his Tesco bags, opened the fridge and started shouting at him. At first Sherlock wondered what was wrong, still gazing with glee through the microscope at the proof glowing up at him from the slide, then he actually listened and remembered, made his apologies, tried to explain but John was beyond reason, refusing to hear him out. 

That set _him_ off and now they’re both screaming, hurling abuse at each other. 

John has started on a long list of all the things he has to put up with and couldn’t Sherlock just predict John would bring up the spoiled limited edition _James Bond_ box set. He’s apologised for that, hasn’t he? Found John a new one on eBay and paid a ridiculous one hundred quid for it, for God’s sake. He needed a disc to do some acid tests on at the time. He can’t be held responsible for not being able to tell the difference between all these childish spy movies John – an actual grown-up man – is addicted to. 

And so he plays the violin at night? Sherlock warned John, mentioned it in the second sentence he directed at him when Mike introduced them. So what is John complaining about? It’s not the violin playing per se but the heehawing of tortured cats he managed to wrangle out of the strings last night. Those weren’t tortured cats, that’s Ligeti. He had needed the Ligeti to be able to think. He can’t help it John’s musical upbringing was limited to an inadequate mixture of The Beatles and crooners from the fifties with some eighties dance music thrown into it thanks to that dipsomaniac of a sister of his.

Has John ever contemplated how annoying it is to have someone standing at your side insisting to drink the cup of tea one doesn’t actually want? Persisting in tidying the flat the whole time so it’s impossible to find anything when one needs it? The aggravation of sharing a living room with someone who watches endless reruns of _Doctor Who_ , a series that’s so amazingly infantile it’s a wonder anyone over the age of ten would even consider wasting one’s time with viewing that kind of vapid rubbish.

It’s too much and Sherlock storms off to his room, slamming the door behind him with force to express his disgust with John’s behaviour. All his exuberance has vanished into thin air. He throws himself on the bed, kicks off his shoes and texts his conclusion to Lestrade. That done he stares up at the ceiling.

The ceiling doesn’t hold any interest for him. Sherlock’s studied it extensively before while lying awake, can summon up the map of the various stains and discolourings on its 140 square feet with his eyes closed. He has had nothing else to do during those endless nocturnal sessions when the longed-for sleep doesn’t come. Nothing but to gaze up at the ceiling and listen to the descending sounds of John quietly snoring in his bed or engaging himself in other activities Sherlock would rather not think about. But then John is unlike him in that respect – he is just a man – although Sherlock can’t imagine John as the participant in any of the vile acts he has taken part in. 

He shivers with disgust, fights against the bile rising in his throat. Never, never, ever is he going to submit himself to those kinds of depravities again. 

In the kitchen John is stashing away the shopping. He bangs the cupboard doors and Sherlock hears the fridge door being opened and closed with a heavy thud a few times. Gradually the force of John’s actions decreases, indicating the decline of John’s anger until Sherlock hears him filling the tea kettle. So tea it’s going to be, that great British solution to end all disagreeable domestics. He decides he’ll welcome the olive branch, but only after John has offered some remorse as well.

A gentle knock on his door followed by John bearing a tray with two steaming mugs and a plate of hobnobs. 

“Look,” John says. He puts down the tray on the nightstand and perches himself on the edge of Sherlock’s bed. John is allowed to do that. He’s the only person in the world who may seat himself there. He draws his hand over his eyes, contracting his thumb and fingers over the bridge of his nose in his own characteristic way which Sherlock finds so endearing.

“I’m sorry Sherlock. I haven’t slept well and I had an exhausting day at the clinic and they have reorganised the aisles in Tesco so the bloody shopping took ages. Finding those fingers just was the bloody limit. I’m sorry I let myself fly off the handle like that. I understand you intended to stow them away properly. It’s the intention that matters.”

Well, this is definitely more than Sherlock reckoned on so he accepts the mug with a munificent gesture, even deigning to take a small sip. The hobnobs he just ignores.

“That’s quite all right, John,” he breezes. “We knew we were setting ourselves up for sharing with a difficult flatmate when Mike first introduced us.”

***

Finding the dead fox in the wood on the other side of the wall has been a true stroke of luck. The cadaver couldn’t have been lying there for long. It didn’t smell yet, not really, and a veiled-over dead eye had gazed out at him when he gingerly lifted one of the eyelids. He couldn’t have hit upon a more perfect subject for his experiment.

Upon discovering the fox, Sherlock hauled the beast over to his tree house and hoisted it up with the help of a rope he took from the shed. The freezing wintry weather still continues and he hopes storing the body up here away from the ground will ensure it won’t be detected by scavengers.

The bomb is a different problem altogether. He has managed to find all the ingredients he will need – the shed once again proving itself to be a treasure trove – and he didn’t have to borrow much as a small bomb will do. But how small? His victim must be ripped properly apart yet there should be identifiable remains as well. If the bomb isn’t powerful enough it won’t do enough damage, the alternative is an equally undesirable outcome. 

Sherlock will have to decide quickly however or the decomposition of the flesh and internal organs will already have progressed too far. That would result in an unscientific experiment, flawed right from the initial set-up. He’s already wasted precious hours searching for another small animal, a dead squirrel or another mole or a bunny, to test bomb, only to be rewarded by the find of the remains of a dove that had served as a great snack for a buzzard.

There’s nothing to it. He’ll just have to take the risk of blowing up the whole experiment, literally as well as figuratively speaking. 

Getting the fox out of the house proves to be far easier than getting it in. Sherlock just shoves the body over the edge. Next he lowers himself carefully down the branches, the bomb in a plastic bag dangling from the rope slung over his shoulder.

Out in the woods he runs to the small glade, holding the plastic bag with the bomb away from his body with a stretched arm to make sure he doesn’t accidentally touch it. The fox’s body slings freely against his legs, dangling from his grip on the thick flurry tail. 

The testing site Sherlock has created in the glade is barely adequate, seeing as how the conditions differ greatly from the event he wants to re-enact on a smaller scale. The flooring in his lab isn’t asphalt but a piece of lino he’s unearthed in one of the attics. He’s worked himself into a sweat dragging it all the way over here. The bomb won’t be hidden beneath the body of the car and Sherlock’s wondered whether the lack of a car and any nearby buildings will influence the bomb’s impact on the body, thus undermining his experiment even further. 

Earlier he devised a pole he can strap the body onto. This way Sherlock hopes to imitate Daddy’s posture the moment the bomb exploded. He places the bomb at approximately one and a half feet away from the body. Next he unwinds the thin rope he has soaked in white spirit to serve as a fuse and hides himself behind the nearest beech tree. He lights up the fuse and watches as the small flame seeks its way along its predetermined line amidst the moist grass, hell-bent on destruction ...

The blast, when it comes, is deafening. Sherlock jumps up from his hideout to inspect the remains of his investigation. Smoke slowly disperses to reveal the wreckage he has wrought, two small paws and one ear sticking up from a scrapheap of torn scraps of flesh lying amidst a congealed mess of blackened blood and charred fur. 

Oh, how stupid of him, he should have scraped off the fur before blowing up the body. Daddy wasn’t that hairy. Only some hair on his legs and under his armpits and lots of hair on his head, of course. He sits looking down on his blasted experiment before deciding it will have to do. With a hand trowel – another shed finding – Sherlock scoops the bloody mess into a clean plastic bag. Next he starts the long trek back to the wall, loaded with bag, trowel and the charred piece of lino.

Sherlock has debated extensively within himself upon the placing of the actual grave. On this side of the wall, out here in the wood, would be safest. Except the wood is the scene of his nightmare so he really doesn’t want to be here. He’s only come out here to bomb his victim because he’s afraid the noise and smoke would have caught John’s attention.

But this burial will be a quiet affair so in the end Sherlock has chosen a spot in the big copse, near the wall. Daddy’s grave is beneath three big beeches near the graveyard enclosure so Sherlock supposes the soil conditions of the two graves will be nearly identical.

Breaking the frozen ground was a struggle. He kept hacking away at the earth with tears of rage and frustration in his eyes. Through sheer determination he has managed to dig deeply, two feet at least. He’s constructed a small coffin out of some scrap wood he hopes John won’t miss,. It stands awaiting next to the pit. He empties the contents of the bag into the rectangular box and carefully lowers it into the grave. 

"Dust thou art, and unto dust thou shalt return," Sherlock whispers and throws his hand of earth on the coffin. His ears scarcely register the small thud, quite different from the loud roaring he heard when the clumps of earth hit Daddy’s coffin. Due to the size of the grave probably. Less space, less resonance. He uses the trowel to fill the hole with earth, tramples the ground and raises a stick over the grave to mark the place. He finishes with scattering and sweeping leaves in a deliberately haphazard way over the spot. 

“See you next week,” he says softly before turning away to go hide the evidence of his afternoon’s activities.

***

In the scullery, Sherlock scrubs his hands endlessly with soap and a stiff brush. The dirt and blood have embedded themselves thoroughly beneath his nails and into the lines on the palm of his hand. 

When his hands feel like he’s scrubbed the skin clean of them, he decides it’ll have to do. The only person liable to pay any close attention to the state of his fingernails is Nanny. But she’s cooped up with Mummy, so Sherlock doesn’t have to fear her close inspection of his nail beds to detect the black rims that have resisted his furious attack with the nail brush.

As he enters her kitchen, Cook presents him with a cup of hot chocolate and a huge piece of sponge cake because he looks ‘a bit peckish and shouldn’t have been outside in that freezing weather that long’. Her good-natured scolding ends with her kissing him on his forehead before sending him away to ‘go amuse himself in his room or something’. 

Up in his room, Sherlock seats himself at his desk for his daily letter to Mycroft. He gives a detailed description of how he constructed the bomb and blew up the fox and how he intends to unearth the coffin every week to examine its contents so he will understand exactly what is happening to the pieces of Daddy in their coffin next to the churchyard wall.

Mycroft’s response two days later is one of vague distaste. _If you think you must, please go ahead with this project_ , he writes. _I must confess the thought of studying decomposing remains doesn’t greatly appeal to me, though. Have you informed Mr Talbot? Not that you need to if you don’t want to. Please remember to wear rubber gloves at all times while carrying out your investigations. I hardly dare consider all the possible germs and diseases you’re exposing yourself to._

Sherlock finds he’s extremely annoyed with himself while reading these sentences. Of course he should have thought of the gloves himself. He steals down to the scullery straight away and finds himself a pair of Cook’s rubber gloves. They’re far too big for him but they will do. He carries them over to his hoard up in the tree house.

***

Sherlock hasn’t seen Mummy for two weeks straight. Not since the funeral. At the end of that interminable day she retired to her room and has not come out since. 

Nanny is with her almost constantly. Every now and then she descends from the room to swoop down upon Sherlock. During these encounters she clutches Sherlock so tightly in her thin arms he’s sure she’s attempting to push all the air out of his lungs. He stands stock-still enduring her ministrations, holding his breath, terrified by the intensity of her broken voice coercing him to be her good boy – her strong boy – her brave boy. Nanny’s eyes are red-rimmed and swollen from all the crying and he struggles to hide the sigh of relief that floods from his lips once she lets go of him.

Otherwise Nanny only leaves Mummy’s room to welcome and say goodbye to the doctor who visits every two days, or to fetch and return the trays at mealtimes. 

No matter what delicacies Cook devises to whet Mummy’s appetite, the trays all come back hardly touched. Cook shakes her head every time she contemplates the sad ruins of her efforts. “Poor woman,” she mumbles while scraping the leftovers from the plate into the bin. 

She touches the big plastic flowers that sit uneasily on her earlobes beneath her grey curls and seats herself at the kitchen table with an audible snap of the joint in her left knee.

“Won’t you come and sit with me?” she asks, opening her arms wide in invitation and Sherlock readily consents because right now, Cook’s lap and the school room are the only safe places in his whole world.

***

Sherlock awakes with a gasp, eyes flying open to be confronted with all-pervading darkness, not even a glimmer of moonlight dashing between the curtains to throw some shape into the room. He struggles, fighting himself loose from beneath the covers to sit upright. 

The soft sounds of John’s snores drift up from where he’s lying on the air mattress next to the cupboard. But John’s homely, open-mouthed snoring isn’t the source of the alarming noise that has woken him. Sherlock sits listening with the top sheet twisted in tight fists in front of his chest, waiting for the disquiet to resume.

His heart is hammering away inside his ribcage like an automaton that has been inexpertly wired and now gone berserk, on an unstoppable rampage flattening anything in its path. Above the loud, insistent beating his ears are cocked in expectation of the din. Despite his preparation the howling, when it comes, startles him into a loud cry. Listening, Sherlock’s fevered imagination whips up every fable, every story featuring wolves he’s ever read. He whimpers and hides beneath the sheets to shut out the hideous alarming racket that pervades the house, briefly freeing himself from his fear to wonder how John manages to sleep through all the shouting.

A loud heavy thud and all is quiet again. Sherlock breathes out. Yet somehow, this stillness is even more uncanny than the noise. Encouraging a false sense of security, which Sherlock knows is a mockery of the world he lived in when Daddy was still alive. 

With a careful movement, Sherlock pulls down the covers and swings his legs over the edge of his bed to stand on the floor. He tiptoes towards the door, stopping every five steps to cock his ears and check John’s breathing. Opening the door and shutting it behind him, he stands outside in the dark corridor until he’s sure the seconds passing by have evolved into minutes. 

He almost runs to the door of his parents’ bedroom and positions himself in front of it. Through the wood he hears the soothing murmur of Nanny’s voice, discharging comforting nonsense. Next, his ears descry a faint sobbing, alternated with big heaving gasps of anguish.

“Oh, stop it, _stop it, damn you,_ stop it! You’re only making it worse. I want to die! Do you understand? I wish I were dead! I wish I were dead and I don’t give a tinker’s damn that I have two children to look after, they can go and look after themselves, go hang themselves for all I care! As long as they leave me alone and let me die.

“No, I won’t listen to you. I will never listen to anyone ever again. He’s dead and I might as well be. I wish I were for then this horrible suffering would end and I wouldn’t have to listen to your grovelling misguided pity anymore. Telling me I will recover. I don’t _want_ to recover. I want to kill the bastards who did this to me, the cowards who blew up my love, my husband, and then I want to stab myself with a knife and DIE!”

“Valerie, child, my darling …”

“Stop it, I said! Can’t you see it’s all the same to me whether I’m your little darling or not? It’s beyond my control. There’s only one thing in the whole wide world I care about and they stole him from me. I hate them, each and every one of them. You want to help me, you say? You can help me by finding them and dragging them here so I can bring them to justice before doing away with myself …”

The frenzied wailing starts again. Covering his ears with his hands, Sherlock sneaks back to his own room. The moon has risen, flooding the room with light through a crack between the curtains. John has turned onto his side, still oblivious to the world around him but breathing quietly now. Three seconds of insecure pondering are all Sherlock needs before he slips between the sheets to seek shelter behind the hideout of John’s broad back.

***

The freezing weather has turned into a faint drizzle that seeks and finds entrance to wet your skin no matter how many layers of protective clothing you wear. Sherlock has ventured outside nevertheless, making use of a brief dry spell. He is shivering all over by the time the trowel hits the wood of the coffin lid. Five more minutes of shovelling and he can raise the casket from the grave. The excitement coursing through his veins as he pries open the lid with a screwdriver warms him up again. 

There definitely is a smell now. It slaps him in the face rather forcefully. The mass bedecking the bottom of the coffin has an appearance he can only describe as ‘more turbid.’ He whips his magnifier out of his coat pocket and scoops up one of the ears with his gloved fingers to deposit it on the plate he’s brought to serve him as his lab desk. Some of the indefinite muck comes next and he ends with a piece of charred bone. 

With the aid of the magnifier he closely studies each piece. He’s hoping to find the evidence of small insect eggs but all his scrutiny brings him is a general sense the different parts have somehow liquefied, except for the piece of bone, though he discerns it is covered with a thin coat of slime. But no matter how closely he looks, he can’t discern any animate activity. No worms, no eggs, nothing. Nothing to indicate the worms are busily feeding on the remains. He sits back on his haunches and swallows his disappointment. Is a week too short a time for the tiny animals to eat their way into the casket?

Still, it’s interesting. He should note his observations down somewhere, keep a kind of decomposition diary. He remembers the big stack of Moleskine notebooks Daddy had always lying handy in his study. He’ll go and check whether they’re still there. Scribbling his notes on the decomposition process in one of Daddy’s notebooks feels very fitting somehow.

Satisfied with his observations and his decision both, he empties the plate back into the coffin and hammers the lid shut again. The reburial consumes far less time than the excavation. He’s just finished scattering the leaves back in place when the first soft drops fall on his hands and face again. Sherlock touches the plastic bag holding the violin case with longing fingers. Both Mr Mancini and Daddy have stressed the violin shouldn’t be exposed to damp conditions, so he can’t play it to add a little style to the funeral. Instead he makes do with whispering the words of the dead liturgy with extra solemnity.

He finishes the little ceremony with a brief flurry of his hand through the cold wet leaves before rising.

“See you next week.”

***

“Mycroft!” He flies down the steps to launch himself into his brother’s arms, hugging him tightly, hugging him with all the strength he has got in his body, intending to never let go. 

Mycroft laughs and splutters and carefully unwraps Sherlock’s arms from around his neck and holds Sherlock’s hands while smiling down upon him and Sherlock finds he suddenly, desperately, wants to cry. He hasn’t cried all these weeks, not since the day of Daddy’s funeral when John told him he should say goodbye to Daddy now. 

He wrings his hands from Mycroft’s grip and runs back up the steps, across the terrace and into the hall, up the big staircase and down the corridor to his room. He throws himself onto his bed, seizing his pillow, and gives in to the tears which he now realises he has been forcing back all this time until they gathered and swelled to this wild gushing torrent he can’t contain any longer.

“Sherlock.” Mycroft’s anguished hand ghosts over his shoulders and his ears detect Mr Talbot’s voice floating through the air from far away.

“Let him have his cry, Mycroft. It will do him good. He’s been very brave. Just hold your little brother closely for a while. I’ll go tell Nanny you can’t come to see your mother just yet.”

Sherlock hears the soft thud of the door closing behind Mr Talbot. Mycroft lowers himself onto the bed and starts stroking him on the back.

“Sherlock, I’m so sorry. I’m so very, very sorry.”

Sherlock turns and buries his face in Mycroft’s lap. “Whatever for?”

Mycroft’s hand continues its downward movement from Sherlock’s neck to his hips and back up again for another gentle stroke. “Oh, I don’t know,” he says. “For everything, I guess. For having to go off to school and leaving you behind here, knowing Mummy is a millstone around everyone’s neck. For not going off to find the people that murdered Daddy and kill them with my bare hands, God knows I long to do just that. For this whole awful situation.”

The last sentence sends a fresh flood of tears to Sherlock’s eyes. “I hate Daddy,” he sobs. “He promised he would be home for my birthday all day, and then he broke his promise and he went up to see all those stupid people in his stupid office, and then he had to step into that stupid car, and if he hadn’t been a liar and stayed here he would still be with us.”

“Sherlock! No, oh no. Please don’t say that. Do you really believe what you said just now? Please tell me you know that isn’t true? They were determined to murder him, Sherlock and if they hadn’t managed to do it that day they would have chosen another day and they would have plotted and planned and tried again and again until they would have got him in the end.” 

The words tumble from Mycroft’s mouth with uncharacteristic speed. Sherlock looks up and sees Mycroft is even more upset than he is.

“I didn’t mean it,” he whispers. “I don’t hate Daddy.”

“No, Sherlock, you don’t. We don’t. Daddy is … Daddy was …” Mycroft swallows. “The best father and the best of men. I have been thinking a lot these past few weeks, Sherlock. I’ve compared Daddy to all the other men one meets, my teachers in school, all those people from the office and at the funeral and I find … oh God … “

His voice has gradually thickened while saying these words and now Mycroft starts crying with a wild abandon that exceeds Sherlock’s own recent outburst of grief. Mycroft slides from the bed and slumps down on the floor, but he doesn’t bury his face in his hands like John did. He just droops against the side of the bed, the tears rolling down his face, heaving for breath in big gasping sobs like he’s drowning, drowning in the salt water that keeps washing over him straight out of his eyes which are squeezed shut so tight Sherlock wonders whether Mycroft will ever be able to open them again. 

Sherlock seeks refuge near the headboard, pulling up his knees against his chest to create an extra barrier between himself and Mycroft. He doesn’t know what to do. He would like to reach out with his hand and pat Mycroft on the head. To soothe Mycroft and tell him it’s all right, but he finds he is terrified. Mycroft’s mourning is far more difficult to contemplate than Mummy’s wailing and lamenting. The whole week up to and after Daddy’s funeral Mycroft was so quiet and dignified – ‘in utter shock’ Mr Talbot called it – that Sherlock can scarcely associate his idea of his sage elder brother with this human wreck sagging on the carpet.

“Mycroft,” he whimpers. “Stop, please stop.”

An arm lashes in his direction like a lifeline thrown at an exhausted swimmer in the wide, wide ocean. Sherlock doesn’t know whether his role is that of the lifeguard vessel or of the drowning victim but he grabs Mycroft’s hand and holds onto it for dear life.

“I’m sorry.” Mycroft gasps. He squeezes Sherlock’s fingers with a feeble press of his own but stays seated, slowly regulating his breath.

“There,” he says, finally. “It’s gone. For now at least. It will be back. You’ll have to forgive me, Sherlock. These attacks do happen to me every now and then. The school doctor has assured me it’s nothing out of the usual. Actually, I feel a little better now. Thank you, Sherlock. Thank you for staying with me.” 

He shifts on the floor so he can turn to look at Sherlock without releasing his hand. 

“We will have to help each other, so we can help Mummy.”

“I don’t think Mummy wants to be helped,” Sherlock blurts. He clasps his hand against his mouth as the implication of his words hits him.

Mycroft doesn’t correct him. He gives Sherlock’s fingers a tight squeeze instead.

“Christ, Sherlock. I do realise that. But we can’t let that happen. And we won’t.”

Sherlock has nothing to say to that.

***

Three gentlemen in unobtrusive grey suits went into Daddy’s study with Mycroft and Mr Talbot one hour ago. Cook sent Brenda up with coffee and hazelnut meringue tart shortly after their arrival. Sherlock is hopping down the servant’s stairs on his way to the kitchen as Brenda comes staggering up them, bearing a tray loaded with sandwiches and hot, fresh Cornish pastries, a pot of tea and a pitcher of milk and freshly squeezed orange juice.

“Shall I carry the sandwiches for you, Brenda?”

“Blimey, yes please, Sherlock. Me guesses Cook wants those gents overeating theirselves into an early grave with all the food she’s having me bringing them.” 

She blushes, the blood rising from up her neck over her face like a sudden fire consuming a house.

“Oh fuck … I meant, Christ. Don’t listen to me, Sherlock. I never said fuck just now. I wanted to say sorry for saying grave. What with your Daddy … oh, fuck it.”

“Is ‘fuck’ a bad word, Brenda? Like ‘bloody’?”

The colour in Brenda’s cheeks slowly drains away. She laughs.

“Yeah, whatever. Please never tell I learned you that word, Sherlock or Cook and Nanny and Mother will never make me hear no end of it.”

“You don’t learn someone else words, Brenda. You either teach someone or someone learns from you.”

“Is that so? Well, that Mr Talbot of yours does learn you all kinds of useful mumbo-jumbo, now don’t he? Would you knock on the door? I can’t, what with the tray.”

Mr Talbot opens the door for them.

“Excellent,” he beams at the sight of the contents of the tray and the plate. 

Brenda scurries inside and quickly places the tray on the small table in front of the hearth. She kneels to start lifting the plates and utensils from the tray and place them on the table. 

“You don’t have to, Brenda,” Mr Talbot says. “We’ll manage. You may go. Put down those sandwiches, Sherlock. You might as well stay. What these gentlemen have to tell us concerns you as well.”

“He’s just a small child,” one of the men protests.

“He’s a _very smart_ small child.” Mr Talbot’s hand pushes Sherlock between the shoulder blades to make him step into the room.

Mycroft pats the place next to him on the sofa to invite Sherlock to sit. Sherlock walks over and snuggles up close against his brother.

“This is ridiculous,” Sherlock hears one of the men mutter beneath his breath. 

“I quite agree with you,” Mycroft nods. “What you’ve given us here is a profound blasphemy of what one might expect your service to have come up with. Is this really the best you could do? Poor England if she’s to depend for her safety on such a lot of floundering idiots as you’ve proven yourselves to be in this investigation.”

Mycroft raises from the sofa and draws himself up to his full height, just two inches shorter than Daddy was. He clasps his hands behind his back and stands eyeing their visitors. The fingers of his right hand twirl an imaginary object, a stick or the handle of an umbrella perhaps. Sherlock has never before noticed Mycroft twiddling his hand while addressing someone. Nanny starts fidgeting whenever she’s nervous. She’s been fretting ever since Mummy slapped him. Mycroft’s restlessness, however, doesn’t stem from nervousness. Displeasure mixed with disappointment would be a better estimation of his feelings.

“Would you have dared to present these results to my father if he were still alive?” Mycroft continues. “I don’t need to answer that question for you, do I? So what gives you the idea you can come blundering in here and flaunt the evidence of your inadequacy in the face of his sons?”

“Now look here, young man,” one of the men starts.

“No,” Mycroft interrupts. “My sincere apologies, but I won’t listen to you. Your report is rubbish from the first page to the last. Those terrorists killed our father. You all understand the importance of his work for our country. The capture of these people is critical for the self-respect of our nation. Each hour they’re allowed to pass in freedom is a mockery of our values.”

Mr Talbot scrapes his throat. “That’s enough, Mycroft,” he says. “Please, do remember both your age and who these gentlemen are.” 

Mycroft stares at his former tutor before sitting down again. Two red spots appear high on his cheekbones.

“Be so good as to help yourselves to the food,” he says, waving his hand in the general direction of the sandwiches. 

“Cheese and watercress, anchovy paste or cucumber,” Mr Talbot sums up the different varieties helpfully. “And Mycroft, if you would be so kind as to be mother?”

Mycroft nods. The gentlemen make their choice and they all sit munching their sandwiches and the pastries and drinking their tea.

Sherlock is the only one not eating. He’s declined the offer of tea as well. He sits looking at Mycroft. 

Why is Mycroft so intent on catching and punishing the people that placed the bomb? Will throwing those men into jail make Daddy alive again? But that can never be. Who’s going to put all the pieces back into their proper place to reshape Daddy into the figure he was? That’s impossible. When Sherlock checked on the fox last week the stench had been worse than ever. Some of the smaller pieces of flesh had turned into weak gory globs of drill. The smaller parts of Daddy must look the same right now. So even if someone would manage to put Daddy back together again he would look like a walking molten candle. And reek worse than the bins outside the kitchen door. 

No, Daddy is dead. Ripped apart and the pieces of him were swept off the street and put into a box that was too big and that box was lowered into the ground. They’re never going to see Daddy again. Never is longer than Sherlock has lived, or Mycroft has lived or even Mr Mancini – who is really, really old – has lived. So why is Mycroft so obsessed with arresting these people?

Is it because Mummy wants him to be?

***

“Christ, Sherlock! How can you stand it?” Mycroft holds his handkerchief in front of his nose. “That smell. It’s horrible.” 

“Yes. This is what Daddy must smell like right now.”

Mycroft gasps. “Yes, I suppose so. Why is it so important to you to find out what …” Mycroft pauses, frowns, braces himself before continuing, “… what our father’s remains look like?”

“Because this is what is happening. I want to know whether it’s true what the vicar said. Whether Daddy really is falling apart into dust particles. To me it looks more like he’s dissolving into liquid.”

“Quite,” Mycroft murmurs. “But what does it matter, Sherlock?”

“I just want to _know_. What does it matter whether those men that were here yesterday find the people that killed Daddy?”

Mycroft gasps. “You can’t be serious?”

“I am,” Sherlock answers Mycroft. “Catching these people, all the names you’re giving them, won’t bring Daddy back to us.”

“That’s not what this is about.” Mycroft is quite vehement. “This is about justice. Those people are murderers, they’re worse, they’re the scum of the earth. Prison is too good for them.”

“Mummy wants to kill them. That turns her into a murderer as well,” Sherlock says.

“Sherlock!”

“It’s true,” Sherlock cries. He jumps up from his kneeling position next to the grave. “I heard her say so herself to Nanny. She wants to kill them and then she’s going to kill herself. And I hope she does. Because she’s been nothing but horrid to everyone ever since Daddy died.”

“Sherlock!” Mycroft grasps Sherlock by the shoulders and shakes him. “Sherlock, stop it. I want you to take those words back.”

“No!”

Mycroft tightens his grip on Sherlock’s shoulders and shakes Sherlock some more.

“Yes,” he hisses through clenched teeth. “I won’t have you talk like this about Mummy, our mother. She’s wild with grief, understandably so. You don’t understand. So you’re not to judge her.”

“Mycroft! You’re hurting me!”

Mycroft lets go of Sherlock’s shoulders . He breathes deeply several times, flexing and un-flexing his hands where they’re hanging loosely at his sides .

“I’m sorry, Sherlock. I let myself get carried away.” Mycroft throws Sherlock a weak smile. “I think we’re finished with the examination, aren’t we? Time for the reburial. Show me how you do it, Sherlock.”

Mycroft walks over to one of the beech trees and seats himself on the ground with his back against the tree. 

Sherlock shovels the liquefying globs back into the casket and closes it. He lowers the box into the grave. Next he throws his hand of earth and mutters his funeral incantation. The rest of the earth follows quickly and he uses the trowel to level the ground before sweeping the covering of leaves back into place. Sherlock’s feeling a bit self-conscious about his actions under Mycroft’s intense gaze. Upon flitting a quick look in the direction of his brother, he finds there’s no need to worry. Mycroft’s expression is one of curiosity, not censure. 

Sherlock stands and bends to open his violin case. 

“Now I’m going to play for Daddy.”

And he does. He plays the Beethoven scherzo. Sherlock reckons Mycroft will probably consider it inappropriate, it’s such light-hearted _happy_ music but he doesn’t care, not really. The piece fits Daddy perfectly, the picture of Daddy that Sherlock cherishes and desires to preserve. Daddy smiling and hoisting Sherlock in his arms before flinging him away into the sea, Daddy smiling and winking at him across the dinner table. Daddy lifting a honeycomb out of the beehive to inspect it and holding it in front of Sherlock’s face so Sherlock can scrutinise the comb at leisure. 

Sherlock remains standing with his head bowed once he’s finished.

Mycroft is silent. Above them a faint wind rustles the fresh young leaves of the trees. Sherlock waits with his eyes closed.

A faint stirring of the leaves on the ground makes him open his eyes. Mycroft has risen and walks over towards Sherlock to pull him close with his head against Mycroft’s midriff. 

“That was beautiful, Sherlock. Daddy would have been so proud of you if he could have heard that.”

“I was going to play it for him on my birthday,” Sherlock says.

Mycroft shudders. “Your birthday,” he echoes. “The same day Daddy died. That’s just … somehow it seems so unfair towards you.”

Sherlock thinks. “Yes,” he agrees. “I suppose you’re right.”

Mycroft pulls back a little.

“I’ve got an idea,” he says. “Why don’t we ask your violin teacher and Mr Talbot to take us to Glyndebourne this year? You would like that, wouldn’t you?”

“I liked the music,” Sherlock answers.

“But you didn’t like the audience,” Mycroft finishes the sentence for Sherlock. “But our little party will be quite anonymous so you need not fear of anyone intruding upon our privacy. I’ll go and arrange it then.”

“Yes, well …”

“You really should try to overcome this unwillingness to meet new people, and listen and talk to them, Sherlock,” Mycroft continues. “Once you’re grown up you’ll have nobody’s back to hide behind. And in the task we’ll be fulfilling listening to other people and feigning an interest in their doings will be of the essence.”

“I want to be a violinist. I will talk to other people through my instrument and make them listen to me. I don’t want to talk to anyone but you and Mr Talbot and John and Mr Mancini and Cook. And Nanny maybe.”

“And Mummy?” Mycroft asks. Sherlock remains resolutely quiet.

“This is ridiculous,” Mycroft says. “You can’t become a recluse to the world at seven, Sherlock. You need to go out, meet other people. Maybe we should arrange for you to go to school. We’d be together more often then. And you would be living in an atmosphere that’s a bit more … ah, _appropriate_ to someone your age.”

“No!” Sherlock shouts. “No! I don’t want that, I want to stay here. I’m not going to be sent away to school. Daddy said he hated the school, hated every minute of it. He promised I wouldn’t have to go, not until I was twelve. You didn’t have to go to school before you turned twelve, Mycroft. So why should I?”

Mycroft purses his lips and stares at the ground

“Because,” he says at last, “the situation has changed. Changed rather drastically. Currently we’re not orphaned once but twice, Mummy is unable to take care of you, to look after you. Our parents have always delegated a large part of the day-to-day care of us to other people – to Nanny and Mr Talbot – but they, especially Daddy, always watched over us in a general way.”

“Mr Talbot can take care of me perfectly well. And John is here to look after me. And Cook always checks whether I’ve washed my hands before I’m allowed to sit down at the table.”

Mycroft laughs. “I’m so glad to hear she does. You’ve convinced me, Sherlock. But seriously, I understand the idea must seem daunting to you, but unless Mummy does get better soon I’m afraid school is the only option we’ve got.”

“That’s not fair!” Sherlock balls his hands and pummels Mycroft in the chest. Tears of frustration prick behind his eyes. Mycroft manages to grab Sherlock by the wrists and constrain him.

“I _know_ it isn’t fair, Sherlock. But from what I’ve learned so far, life mostly isn’t. We can’t expect to be dealt a fair hand. We’ll just have to play the cards we’re given as best as we can. If you’re really this set against going to school I suggest we give Mummy a few more months to recover and let things be for now. Please Sherlock, I only want what is good for you. I worry about you, constantly. Do you believe me?”

Sherlock swallows several times. Then he nods. 

“Good.” Mycroft smiles. He holds out his hand. “Shall we go back now? It looks like it’s going to rain any minute and I quite liked the look of that Bakewell tart Cook made this morning.”

***

“Sherlock?”

“Yes, John?” Sherlock looks up from the book on neuroscience he’s reading to find John hovering next to his chair with a mug of tea in his hand.

John reaches over the chair to place the mug on the mantelpiece and sits himself in his own chair.

“Next week is my birthday,” he begins. “And I wanted to organise a small party. Nothing special. I just thought of asking a few people over for a drink. And some food maybe. There’s this new Greek deli next to the surgery. They stock delicious small meatballs filled with olives.”

Sherlock thinks. “Fine,” he says after a while. “Just tell me the date and the hour and I’ll make myself scarce.”

John looks shocked. “Of course not,” he protests. “You’re my best friend. I expect you to attend.”

Sherlock raises his eyebrows but says nothing.

“It will be just a few people,” John plods on. “Bill Murray of course, and Mike, and Sarah. I will have to ask Harry, I’m afraid, or I’ll never hear the end of it. Mrs Hudson, but then I don’t even have to mention her, I suppose. And I’d thought of asking Lestrade, he’s become such a good friend and I know you _do_ like him even though you’d rather swallow your own tongue than admit it.”

Sherlock just stares at John.

“I’d like to ask Molly Hooper as well. She’s a thoroughly decent girl and she’s got a great sense of humour.”

“As you wish, John.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes.”

John licks his lips. “Fine, then.”

“Yes, fine.”

Sherlock resumes reading his book. He ignores the fact John is staring at him closely while the fingers of his left hand tap the arm of his chair. John manages to keep quiet for about half a minute.

“Sherlock?”

Sherlock sighs in a put-upon manner and raises his head. “Yes?” 

“When is your birthday?”

“The sixth of January.”

“Oh.” Confusion overtakes John’s features. “So I missed that. But then, you’re not really into birthdays, I guess.”

“Your powers of deduction have scaled a new height just now, John.”

“There’s no need to get all sarcastic on me. I mean, what’s wrong with wishing to celebrate one’s birthday? Apart from the fact that would imply one would have to interact with other people.”

Sherlock remains quiet.

“Sherlock, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing, John. I’d just … I propose we leave the subject of my birthday well alone. The date has very bad connotations for me.”

“Okay. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.”

“It’s all right, John. It’s … “

Sherlock looks at John – at John’s open, honest, trusting face – and suddenly he is overcome by a passionate urge to tell John why his own birthday is the worst day of the year. Sherlock carries so many secrets with him. Mycroft is the only other person who knows them all, but Mycroft knowing everything about him is no consolation. It’s more of a scab, the permanent itch of which no amount of scratching will suffice to make it go away.

But maybe Sherlock would benefit from disclosing some facts about himself to John. Innocent facts. Things that happened to him and weren’t his own doing. Why not tell John a little about himself? It would be John, who’s been so frank and decent with him from the start.

Sherlock raises himself from his chair with an abrupt jerk. “I’m going out,” he announces.

“Oh.” Confusion overtakes John’s features. Sherlock slants his eyes and makes for the door.

“I’m sorry, John.” He pulls the door shut behind him with too much force and stands breathing heavily for a while on the landing. Then he runs down the steps.

***


	3. Homo Homini Lupus est, chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Silence. Sherlock looks around him but nothing moves in the hall or the small staircase on the other side of the corridor. The seconds start stretching away into minutes. Sherlock’s ears still detect no sound on the other side of the door. Apparently the conversation is over. Any moment now Mycroft will yank open the door and reveal Sherlock standing there. He starts tiptoeing away when the sound of his mother scraping her throat halts him.

John has drawn the curtains and lit the fire about an hour ago. Now Sherlock sits with his long legs lingering luxuriously in front of it. They’re reaching all the way to John’s feet, which are clad in a pair of socks as horrendous as the jumper he’s wearing. 

Sherlock’s feeling deliciously rested, having slept nearly the whole day after rounding up a particularly gruelling case, all the more gruelling due to the fact that he hadn’t had John at his side to edge him on with his usual exclamations and questions. John is barely recovered from a bout of near-pneumonia, induced by their second-latest case, the case that required John to wait for hours in a back alley, patiently keeping guard in the drizzling rain London is justly infamous for, slowly but steadfastly turning into a sodden wet shivering mess.

Thanks to John’s vigilance, Sherlock had been able to close the case in less than half an hour after bursting into the alley. He had swept John up and bundled him into a taxi, yelling at Lestrade that he had handed the DI all the evidence he needed on a plate and how about doing some of the mental work himself for a change. 

Back at 221B he enlisted the help of Mrs Hudson in finding every available duvet and blanket in the house. He put John under a scalding hot shower, then into bed. Sherlock draped all the duvets and blankets on top of John until he looked like an inverted picture of the princess on the pea. Mrs Hudson proceeded to supply John with endless cups of tea and she scolded him into drinking down to the dregs, but not until she had finished rebuking Sherlock thoroughly for his utter lack of sense and his profound egoism in keeping John out in that frightful weather for hours. 

He’d undergone it all meekly, agreeing to everything she said in the hope that this would help her return her attention to John sooner. Mercifully it had, resulting in the first health-restoring mug put to John’s lips while she held his head to enable him to gulp it all down.

Sherlock kept watch in a chair next to John’s bed for three consecutive nights. On the fourth day, John declared he was recovered sufficiently to have his bedroom all to himself again at night. He had gone on to restrict visiting hours from nine am to nine pm. 

“I’d rather have you bored,” he stated, still coughing and clasping his hands around a mug of Mrs Hudson’s chicken soup. “Your bedside manner is enough to send anyone straight to the morgue. Not much of a triumph in deducing the puzzle of that murder.”

Freed from the urge to watch over John, the boredom came crashing down upon Sherlock, all the heavier for having been kept at bay for three whole days. After having dosed himself with three nicotine patches he blew up the toaster – thus blowing the main fuse – in an experiment which involved the burning of tissue samples. A spectacularly failed experiment all in all, its only result being yet more scolding and an overall very tense atmosphere in the flat. 

They had all been saved by a text from Lestrade asking for Sherlock’s assistance in a series of vicious murders, the victims all decapitated for some mysterious reason. He practically leapt with joy, and then went bouncing up the stairs to John’s room to ask him for permission to be off. He must have been looking jubilant as John waved him off with a weary half-smile on his face, telling him it was all fine, he was left in the best care imaginable, all he asked was for Sherlock to please be careful and not do anything rash, even though he knew Sherlock was not going to heed him. Because this did sound like a nasty set of buggers was behind it all and John didn’t want him to die yet, even after what they had been through these last few days. 

Mrs Hudson found reason to tell him off once more, this time for looking indecently happy.

“You go and have your fun, Sherlock,” she said, “but sometimes I wonder whether you realise it’s people that are suffering from those crimes you investigate.”

“All the time Mrs Hudson!” he cried over his shoulder, taking the steps down again two at a time, “and thankfully I’ve got you and my blogger to remind me, should I ever forget.” 

With that parting shot he galloped out the front door, coat billowing behind him.

***

John is reading. One of those awful silly spy novels but Sherlock has decided not to make a scathing remark because John is still recuperating. John’s breath is a continually wheezing noise as it gets sucked in and is billowed out of his lungs. He’s got some colour back at least, although the ruddy glow on his cheeks derives in all likelihood from the combination of the glowing fire and the jumper, the oatmeal-coloured one with the intricate cable knit. If Sherlock were the one wearing it he would be experiencing the permanent discomfort of feeling smothered even though he is the one who is always feeling cold.

John frowns before the right hand corner of his lips curls into a half-smile of amusement. He is reading quite rapidly as Sherlock can deduce from the movement of John’s eyelids as he is scanning the pages. Apparently he is so taken up by the story he doesn’t feel Sherlock’s close scrutiny. Which is fine, no, more than fine, rather good in fact, as Sherlock has found he actually likes to observe his flatmate closely. 

What had he said to Daddy that day in the autumn before Daddy died?

_“We like each other and he wants to help me.”_

Mr Talbot had been his friend, as well as John. As well as _this_ John is his friend, in this new reality of sharing. Sharing a flat, sharing dinner, sharing a giggle over Lestrade’s looks of bewilderment. John listening to Sherlock and Sherlock paying attention to what John says, making an effort to do the things he knows will please John. 

From the very first time they met, Sherlock has felt he can trust John. It’s an unfamiliar feeling. Like new shoes that feel fine as you put them on in the store but after two hours of walking start to pinch and make one feel decidedly uncomfortable.

The morning after the taxi driver case, Sherlock got a profound shock as he walked into the living room and found John there seated at a table laid for breakfast – an actual pot of brewed tea taking pride of place in the centre – smiling up at him and pleasantly stating he hoped Sherlock had slept well.

But Sherlock has become used to it all too quickly, by now being around John is like wearing thoroughly walked-in old shoes. It’s exhilarating – his starved mind is lapping up the healthy endorphins induced by this friendship, his first true friendship since his early childhood – and very, very frightening. 

He was still a young boy when he last saw Mr Talbot. But after they’d been forced to say goodbye he’d known Mr Talbot was around – somewhere in England – watching over him. All he had to do was sit down and write a letter to the one person who would always listen to him. And Mr Talbot had given him fair warning when that time had to come to an end as well. 

John had been different, never saying much, yet always there when Sherlock returned for the holidays. But surely Sherlock had been a friend to John. By listening to _his_ story, without interrupting him, without displaying Mycroft’s prejudice. He had listened and accepted while he held John’s old hand. John was already very ill then, unable to take care of the garden any longer. He had looked so tired, shrunken to a mere husk of his former self. With a hot rush of feeling in his chest, Sherlock looks down at his hand – which is so like Daddy’s – and suddenly he feels John’s hand in his. His thumb softly strokes back and forth over the callouses on the palm of their gardener, formed by years of holding spades, and shears and doing all the hard work of maintaining the estate. His ears fill with the sound of the soft voice of the old man, pouring out the words and, oh …

“Sherlock?”

“Yes … what?”

“I asked whether you would like another coffee.”

Sherlock blinks quickly, sees the amused smile flitting over John’s face. He braces himself and slides upright in his chair.

“I’ll make it. You stay near the fire, John.”

“I’m completely recovered, Sherlock,” John protests. The effort of pronouncing the sentence sends him into a coughing fit.

“I see,” Sherlock comments and he can’t contain the quick quirk of his lips. 

John glares at him. “Do you actually know how I drink my coffee, Sherlock?”

Well, that will be a nice surprise to spring upon John. 

Once he’s seated in his chair again he hides behind a book. Over the edge he watches John closely. John eyes the coffee with a vaguely apprehensive look before bringing the rim of the cup close to his mouth.

“It smells good,” he forwards.

“Hmm.” Sherlock takes a sip of his own coffee. Black, two sugars, the way he likes it. It still baffles him John can stomach the stuff unsweetened. He gestures towards the strawberry tartlet he has put on the small table next to John’s chair.

“I bought it at Harrods,” Sherlock says. 

John takes a small sip. “Yes.” John looks pleasantly surprised. Sadly, Sherlock can’t tell whether that is because John finds the coffee is exactly to his taste or because Sherlock remembered John is very fond of Harrods’ strawberry tartlets and went out of his way to go over to the store to buy one for John after finishing a case and going through the motions of filling in all the paperwork in Lestrade’s office.

“I bought myself a pear tartlet. Though they can never be as good as those Cook made.”

“No, of course,” John agrees. He looks mildly amused. Sherlock ignores his expression and pretends to absorb himself in his book again.

That smile. Sherlock has become disquietingly dependent on being rewarded by that small smile tugging at the corner of John’s lips to show he is pleased with something Sherlock has said or done. Sherlock has given up warning himself against indulging in the warm feeling, even though he knows trust and care and sympathy are dangerous. There’s only one person one can always rely on and that is oneself. Sooner or later the people one has come to love and count on will leave. Of their own free will, or because of circumstances, but the difference isn’t that significant. The effect is the same, so he’d be better on his own. Alone is what he has, alone protects him.

Mycroft betrayed him first of all. And Victor after him. Victor, whom Sherlock had loved so, who had sworn to him he would be Sherlock’s for as long as they lived. And Lestrade, seeking contact with Mycroft against Sherlock’s wishes. Defending himself with his stupid, feeble argument: “Because family is important, Sherlock.” The DI had looked rather discomfited when Sherlock pointed out to him he was the living refute of his thesis, what with a wife that had been cheating on him since the fifth year of their marriage, a brother that regularly asked for a loan with the promise to repay the money at the earliest possible moment, except that moment never did arrive. Not to mention the youngest child failing quite spectacularly in school and blaming Lestrade, the most decent man in the entire British police force, because of his supposed cruel treatment of her mother. 

Now John laughs. “You aren’t listening at all, now are you?”

Sherlock rouses himself. “No, no. You were saying?”

“How hard it is to imagine your childhood. It must have been so different from mine. Almost as if you were raised in a different age. Somehow I’ve devised you to have been a little Lord Fauntleroy, riding a pony in your velvet jacket … “

“I didn’t have a pony,” Sherlock says, affronted.

“But you had a velvet jacket.”

“Yes. I had to wear it at Christmas.”

“See?”

“I always managed to flee the festivities. I hated those. The whole house was invaded by all these nosy people. I escaped to the shed. There, John would make us tea and we’d eat the mince pies he’d nicked out of the kitchen.”

“John?”

“Yes. Our gardener. He was named John, just like you. He taught me to box. I told you, remember?”

John laughs again. “Our gardener. And Cook. I bet you had a Nanny as well?”

Sherlock scoffs. “Of course we had. She had been my mother’s Nanny. She was part of the dowry.”

Now John is laughing even harder. “Little Lord Fauntleroy indeed.”

“As far as I remember, John,” Sherlock corrects him. “Little Lord Fauntleroy was the hero of an appallingly sentimental Victorian novel. An American street urchin, brought over to England to inherit an earldom.”

“Harry loved it. We watched the film every Christmas. _He_ wore a little velvet jacket, I’m quite certain of it. Still, you’re right I suppose. It’s just, it’s so strange, the matter-of-fact way you refer to people serving you and your family.” John smiles.

Sherlock shrugs his shoulders. “I was never allowed to watch television. We had a library full of books and both my father and my tutor encouraged me to make use of it. But John and Nanny and Mr Talbot and Cook didn’t _serve_ our family, John. They were a part of it. In my mind they were at least, and in my father’s mind. I …”

Sherlock looks at John who sits upright in his chair, very quiet suddenly, all his attention on Sherlock. Sherlock swallows before casting his gaze down at his hands. The skin on the back of John’s hand had been hardened, shrivelled and brown …

Sherlock jerks himself out of his chair and perambulates around it. He pulls at the box that is sitting on the lowest bookshelf in the corner next to the window and starts sorting through it. Finally he finds what he was looking for. He walks over to John and hands him the picture before sitting down in his chair again.

“That photo was taken when I was six years old. We had been helping John harvesting the last of the walnuts. Cook made the picture when she came bringing us some pear tartlets. She knew those were my favourite and she’d made some especially because that day was such a good day.”

John sits looking at the picture. Sherlock can’t help shifting in his seat, a little uneasy. He hopes fervently he hasn’t made a mistake in showing John this sacred memento of his arcadia before he was cast out, and catapulted into the world. All depends on John’s reaction. What does he see? What will he say? And has Sherlock given away too much by saying that day had been a good one?

In the photograph Daddy, Mr Talbot and John are seated in the old wicker chairs. Between Daddy’s legs Sherlock sits on the ground with his legs tucked up under him, leaning against his father’s right leg. Daddy looks straight into the camera, grinning broadly, his arms resting on the sides of the chair. Mr Talbot sits to the left of Daddy smiling faintly. His legs are crossed and his cigarette is dangling from his hand in a way Sherlock would describe as nonchalant dandyism except this is Mr Talbot. Seated to the right of Daddy is John.He doesn’t lounge like Daddy or Mr Talbot. His whole small body is wired activity forced into rest. On the left knee of his jeans a carefully mended tear can be spotted.

“So this is you and your father and John on the right, I suppose. And that other man, is he an uncle or … ?”

“No. He was my tutor, Mr Talbot. Those men were my best friends. There was also my violin teacher, of course. But he lived in another village, quite a way away.” Sherlock watches John closely.

“Your resemblance to your father is uncanny. Even at that age. If you hadn’t been sitting there I would have been certain it was you in that chair. The way he carries that scarf. Though I must say I’ve never seen you grin like that.”

“Daddy was the gentlest of men. I never saw him angry. Not once.”

“I like your Mr Talbot. You can see he’s extremely clever.”

“He was. He was at least as intelligent as my father. It was only later that I came to understand he was probably my father’s most trusted and best advisor. And Mycroft’s for a long time as well.”

John looks up but doesn’t ask the obvious question. So he’s already worked that out then. 

“But he’s dead,” John says instead. “You speak of him in the past tense.” 

“All three of them are dead.”

John nods but says nothing. For that, Sherlock is extremely grateful. John looks at the picture some more.

“You all seem much at ease with each other,” he says finally. “It all looks very normal. Though I’m convinced now you must have looked adorable in that velvet jacket.”

Sherlock rewards John’s cheekiness with a brief smile.

“I wonder where Mycroft fits into this picture”, John continues. “That Mr Talbot and he must have hit it off in a quite spectacular way. The way that man holds his cigarette, that’s Mycroft twirling his umbrella.”

“Mycroft was different then. Better. He spoiled with ageing.”

John laughs. “Not stored in the right drawer, was he?” He hands the picture back to Sherlock. “Thank you for showing me, Sherlock. I do appreciate it. I’m sorry to hear these men are dead. I would have liked to meet them.”

“Yes,” Sherlock says warmly, “yes. I wish you could have met them, John.”

***

The first warm day of May was announced early in the morning by the song of a blackbird in one of the rose bushes beneath Sherlock’s window. Sherlock is seated on a bench there that has been heated by the rays of the sun the whole afternoon. He’s reading the story of Odysseus and the Cyclops to John who is busy pruning the bushes and scattering dried horse dung over the earth before raking it in. John has rolled up the sleeves of his old checked shirt and you can see the muscles move under the skin of his forearms as he works.

Sherlock closes the book. “Did you never want to go away, John? Out into the world?”

John snorts. “And get me eaten by a Cyclops, Sherlock? I’m nowhere as clever as that bloke Odysseus.”

“Cyclopes don’t exist, John.”

“I know, Sherlock. But I never had any reason to leave. I wouldn’t have wanted to live anywhere but here. This is where I was born and where I grew up, I know this place like the back of my own hand.”

“Yes. I don’t want to leave either. But Mycroft said maybe I should have to.”

“Well, eventually I suppose. Unless Mycroft can persuade Mr Talbot to stay as your tutor after you have turned twelve. I’m sure that can be arranged if you would want that.” John walks over to the next rosebush and starts inspecting the branches.

“No, in fact,” Sherlock falters for a moment. “Mycroft talked about sending me off to school before that. More like now. He said it wasn’t good for me, living here with just you and Mr Talbot to keep me company.”

John glances up sharply.

“Did he now?” he asks and redirects his attention to the rosebush again. 

“Yes. I said I don’t want that. I want to stay here. I’m sure I’ll hate school.”

“I can see Mycroft’s reasoning. There will be other boys to play with.”

“I don’t want to play with other boys. They’re bound to be dull and boring. I’ve got you and Mr Talbot to play with.”

“Yes, well. That’s not what we’re here for. I’m supposed to take care of the garden and Mr Talbot is supposed to take care of your education. So if Mycroft decides you’re better off at school, after he’s consulted your mother and Mr Talbot, I guess it’s not much use protesting.”

“But it’s not fair.”

John sighs. “I know, Sherlock. And I agree with you. I can see why you don’t like the idea of going off to school and to be honest, I don’t think school will suit you. Your father hated that school. He always was very quiet the first few days of the holidays. He never brought one of the boys back here … “ 

John’s voice drifts off though his hands are still deftly using the shears. Sherlock waits and after a minute John rouses himself.

“But in the end he accepted it. For he saw your grandfather didn’t have much of an alternative. Always busy at Whitehall and the house so big and empty.”

“But I don’t want to go, John. I want to stay here. Because here’s the closest I can be to Daddy.”

John looks up at the tone of Sherlock’s voice.

“You poor child.” The words sound like a sob. John walks over to the bench and seats himself next to Sherlock. He draws Sherlock into his strong arms. Sherlock melts against John’s frame, his head against John’s chest. John smells of fertile, sun-warmed earth, mingled with a faint whiff of roses and sweated skin. Sherlock closes his eyes and wriggles himself a little tighter into John’s arms. 

“Thank you, John,” he mumbles.

They sit silent together, Sherlock basking in John’s warmth and the sun rays play on his knees and the top of his head.

Suddenly there’s the crunch of running feet on the gravel that lines the paths between the rose beds. Sherlock’s eyes fly open to find Mummy sweeping down upon him and John. She grabs Sherlock’s upper arm in a grip as tight as a lock and wrenches him to his feet.

“Let go of my son, you pervert,” she shouts at John. “How dare you touch him! Go away, don’t let me ever catch you near him again.”

She starts shaking Sherlock violently. “Did he touch you?” she says, thrusting her face close to Sherlock’s and God, is this drab demon fury from hell his mother? “Did he hurt you?”

“No Mummy, _you_ are hurting me,” Sherlock protests. “Please don’t, Mummy.”

Mummy’s hands relax on his arms before she drops them to her side.

“I’m sorry,” she says. “Promise me you’ll never touch that man again.”

Sherlock looks at her, she looks deceptively calm and sane. Behind him he can hear John’s laboured breathing.

“But, Mummy. You’re talking about John.”

“Exactly.”

“I don’t understand.”

Mummy starts laughing. The hysterical note in her voice conveys her imbalance instantly. Sherlock puts his hands against his ears to block himself off from hearing. His mother’s merriment ceases as abruptly as it began.

“Of course you don’t,” she says, her voice cold. She grabs Sherlock’s right hand and jerks him towards her. “Come on. Don’t you have to play that infernal violin of yours or do some homework?”

Sherlock struggles against her hold on his hand but his mother is stronger than he is. 

“Stop it,” she bites at him and jerks him towards her.

Together they walk to the house, Sherlock trailing after Mummy and glancing back at John over his shoulder. John stands shaking. But his eyes are closed and he doesn’t notice the small wave Sherlock sends him with his free hand. 

Sherlock remembers another sunny day. Except everyone was wet then, Sherlock and Mummy, and Mycroft. Sherlock shivers, as he must have been doing years ago. 

***

In the hall, Nanny and Mr Talbot stand awaiting them. Mr Talbot’s hold on Nanny’s wrist is at least as fierce as Mummy’s grip on Sherlock’s hand.

“It’s so good to see you up and about again, Mrs Holmes,” Mr Talbot addresses Mummy in smooth tones. “The day is indeed lovely. Still, the weather looks warmer than it is and you shouldn’t have ventured outside without your robe. Pray let Nanny take you up and put you to bed before you catch a cold. You’re still a little weak …”

His voice drifts off. Mummy loosens her hold on Sherlock’s hand and looks up at Mr Talbot with a dazed look on her face. 

“I suppose you’re right,” she murmurs. She falls down on her knees before Sherlock and gathers him in her arms.

“Good night, my darling,” she says and presses her lips tight against Sherlock’s. She’s stifling him, Sherlock fights to free herself from her grasp but she clings to him like a giant parasite plant smothering a small bush.

“Mrs Holmes,” Mr Talbot admonishes Mummy quietly.

“Valerie, please don’t,” Nanny adds her teary voice to his. She paws Mummy’s shoulder with a feeble gesture but Mummy ignores her. 

Now Mr Talbot’s strong hands insert themselves between Sherlock and Mummy.

“I told you to let go, Mrs Holmes,” he says and Sherlock wonders whether Mummy and Nanny can hear the hint of impatience in his voice as well. He heaves a sigh of relief once Mummy is made to stand up and handed over to Nanny. Nanny coaxes Mummy along, down the hall and up the stairs.

“Please go down to the kitchen for your tea, Sherlock,” Mr Talbot tells him once they’ve heard the door to Mummy’s bedroom close. He walks over to the French doors to the terrace. “I’ll go and find John.”

Sherlock hurries down the servants’ stairs to the kitchen to find John already sitting in a chair with a big mug of steaming hot tea in his hands and a plate of fruitcake in front of him. He’s lost all colour beneath his tan. 

“John.” Sherlock runs up to him and throws his arms around John’s neck. “Oh John, I’m so sorry.”

“Be careful, Sherlock,” John says, an attempt at a smile around his mouth. 

“You sit down and eat, Sherlock,” Cook tells him. Sherlock seats himself obediently and reaches for John’s hand. “You shouldn’t listen to her,” he says to John. 

John sighs, but says nothing.

“Leave him be and drink your tea, Sherlock,” Cook chides Sherlock. A mug of tea and a big slice of fruitcake appears in front of Sherlock’s nose and a warm hand fondles his neck for a moment.

John and Sherlock sit drinking their tea and eating their cake in silence while Cook is busy at the stove. Thus the scene appears quite peaceful once Mr Talbot bursts in upon it.

“John,” he states, obvious relief flooding his voice. “And Sherlock. Good.”

Cook beams at him. “Will you have your tea, Mr Talbot?”

“Yes, please. That would be lovely.” He looks at John. “Hope you recovered a bit?”

John shrugs his shoulders. “I’m all right. But Sherlock …”

“Yes,” Mr Talbot cuts him short. He turns towards Sherlock next. “Your mother is a most remarkable woman. I do apologise to the two of you. I never thought she would still be so quick after all these months. Sadly, I was too late to prevent her from hurrying out the door. I decided not to intervene in the hope the dramatics would be kept to the bare minimum. Did she hurt you badly?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “Just a little.”

Mr Talbot seats himself. “I’m sorry, Sherlock. I truly am. You’ve already written to Mycroft today, I gather. You can tell him what happened today in tomorrow’s letter.”

“What happened today, Mr Talbot?”

Mr Talbot looks at Sherlock first, John next. “Mycroft will understand,” he says. “You’re too young to explain this to, Sherlock. Please believe me, me and John and Cook, and Mycroft as well, we would tell you if we could.”

***

_At least you assured me you weren’t hurt. But I’m deeply worried, Sherlock. We’ll talk about this more extensively during the holidays. Only four more weeks._

Sherlock sits looking down at Mycroft’s dreaded answer. He already knows what those talks are going to comprise.

***

“Fear not, Sherlock,” Mr Mancini comforts him. “If you do insist you don’t want to go to this school your brother is bound to listen to you. Especially since he must know how your dear father hated it. Your brother must be living under an immense strain, my boy.”

The fingers of the old man’s right hand, still quick and nimble, trail absently over the body of the violin he’s holding. “Unlike you, he hasn’t got the ability to lose himself in beauty. At your Daddy’s funeral I could see his mind just busily whirring away, he never heard one note. You did, and you let the music soothe you, but he obviously can’t. He grasps the idea behind the notes on an intellectual level but he’s unable to give himself over, to shed control. I do feel for him, Sherlock.”

“Yes, but …”

“It’s no use discussing this right now, isn’t it? Mycroft hasn’t written you what he wants to do. Instead of fidgeting over maybes and what ifs, you should have studied a little harder yesterday, Sherlock. Never forget your violin will always be there, if you let her. Now play me Mozart’s lovely little piece, won’t you? Why do people always insist he’s the happy playful one while Beethoven is all dark and sombre? Don’t people _listen_?”

***

“I want that man gone! I can’t stand the sight of him! I don’t see why I should have to put up with seeing him in my own HOME!” 

Mummy’s screaming so hard Sherlock wonders how Mycroft can bear being in the same room as her. Even standing on the other side of the thick wood of the door Sherlock’s ears ring with the noise. 

Mycroft’s soothing murmurs are indistinguishable but they seem to have no effect.

“I can speak as loud as I want! This is MY home! And I’m YOUR mother, Mycroft Holmes. How dare you speak to me in these tones? Surely your … your … your father and I, we didn’t raise you this way.”

More whispering.

“NO! You know full well why he should go. I don’t care what the neighbours say. The neighbours don’t have to torment themselves every bloody day with the view of … of … Oh God, Mycroft. I need him, I need him, I don’t want to live. I’m sorry, darling. But it’s … oh, I miss him so … “

Now Mummy is reduced to hysterical sobbing. Whenever she has to stop to heave for breath Sherlock’s hearing picks up the vague rumble of Mycroft’s calming notes.

“Surely you must understand. Please. I mean we don’t have to chuck him out penniless. I don’t care about the money. Give him as much as he needs. Just make sure I don’t ever have to see him again. That isn’t so much to ask, now is it? Why should I have to look at him if I will never be able to look at your father anymore?”

Now Sherlock hears Mycroft’s urgent voice. “Mummy, please. You know why, I don’t have to explain. He’s been living here his whole life, and his father and grandfather before him. His family serving ours goes almost as far back as when the first Holmes settled here on the estate. What you wish is simply inconceivable. He never ventures past the kitchen unless he’s asked to. We could work out a schedule for his duties in the gardens near the house. We will think of something. But we can’t sack him, we simply can’t.”

“But I WANT it.”

“Mummy. No.”

Silence. Sherlock looks around him but nothing moves in the hall or the small staircase on the other side of the corridor. The seconds start stretching away into minutes. Sherlock’s ears still detect no sound on the other side of the door. Apparently the conversation is over. Any moment now Mycroft will yank open the door and reveal Sherlock standing there. He starts tiptoeing away when the sound of his mother scraping her throat halts him.

“All right. I’ll concede. But on one condition only.”

Mycroft sighs. “Mummy.”

“It isn’t too much to ask, I think.” Sherlock can see the smile in his mother’s voice. “Having him out of the way might be even better. For I can never look at him but think of what I’ve lost …”

“Mummy. I really don’t think that would be a good idea. Sherlock is too young. And Daddy didn’t want him to go to school until he was twelve. Please … “

Mummy interrupts him. “Oh, but the neighbours won’t think anything wrong with it, don’t you agree,” she purrs. “After all, lots of boys are sent to boarding school at seven. Your choice, Mycroft.”

***


	4. Homo Homini Lupus est, chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Shall we go and see whether the swimming pool is as big as they claimed?” Sherlock offers the question to end the awkward situation. Let them just pretend everything is normal, that this scene with Sherlock and Mycroft looking at each other in this horrid room that is to be Sherlock’s prison for the next few years is the most ordinary thing in the world. If they act believably enough, surely they’ll be able to convince at least the other, even if not themselves.

He’s buried in an experiment, injecting poison with a thin needle under toenails. He’s holding each separate one in place between the thumb and fingers of his left hand and inserting the small needle in the right hand corner of each nail with his right. Molly has provided him with a fine array of specimens, both male and female of different ages, the nails all different shapes and sizes, healthy nails, chalky nails, lacquered nails, just like he’d requested. 

The doorbell sounds through the house. He decides to ignore it, he’s too involved in his experiment. Mrs Hudson can go to open the door since she’s just sitting in front of the telly, dissolving her brain with daytime TV. 

Mycroft’s clear clipped tones drift up to him next as he hears him clamber up the steps behind Mrs Hudson. She knocks on the door to the kitchen.

“Yoohoo, Sherlock! Your brother’s come to see you.” She glances at the table. “Oh dear, do you think this is a good idea? I don’t know whether John will be very happy if he finds this exhibition upon coming home. You know he always does the shopping on Thursdays. You don’t want to aggravate him any further, do you?”

“John won’t be coming home for another hour at least. I’ll make sure everything is cleared away before he returns,” he soothes her.

She looks a little doubtful but turns her back anyway.

“Well, I’ll leave you to it then. Goodbye, Mycroft.”

“Goodbye, Mrs Hudson. Thank you for showing me in.” Mycroft is all smooth congeneality. 

Sherlock waits until he hears the thud of Mrs Hudson’s door closing downstairs. Mycroft stands observing him, a file folder in his left hand, umbrella point tapping the side of his right shoe, the expression on his face one of careful neutrality.

“What do you want?” Sherlock snarls.

“Ah, the perfect host as ever,” Mycroft sighs. “A cup of tea would be lovely, thank you very much. But I surmise without the good doctor around that’s an impossible request.”

They glare at each other. Mycroft clears his throat before continuing.

“How is John, by the way? I must say the stamina of the man frankly astonishes me. Even though he’s ex-army and all and I’ve been informed by the recruiting authorities we don’t just accept any Tom, Dick or Harry that turns up and asks to be enlisted. A most reassuring thought in my opinion.”

The umbrella is twirled with the graceful swift ease of an acrobat walking over a cord high in the roof of a circus tent. “Still, if I were a betting man I would have put my stakes on him persevering for four months at the most. Even the most hardy character would be sure to cave in under the constant jeopardy enjoying you as a flatmate must constitute. Yet here you are, having lived together for nearly half a year and the CCTV cameras showed the two of you happily sauntering along to the Thai yesterday evening. Does this indicate you’ve decided to reign in your less lovely traits and endeavour to actually be pleasant to someone else?”

The point of the umbrella is tapping the top of the oxblood leather shoe now, reflected in the leather that’s buffed to a mirror-like glossy shine. Mycroft’s expression is one of designated calculated innocence. The air he exudes during trade talks to put the other party at ease and convince them they will actually profit by the proposed treaty.

Sherlock finds himself reddening. Mycroft’s punctiliously phrased remarks have cut him to the quick. He forces himself to breathe evenly and suppress the desperate necessity to bodily fling himself at his brother. He won’t give him the satisfaction. Finally he manages to speak.

“Spying again, are we? Though anyone would say you’re new to the game, considering the conclusions you’ve drawn from all your goggling at your nasty little screens. I understand precisely what you’re insinuating, Mycroft. It’s frightening really, to realise your narrow mind won’t allow you to conceive of any other form of relationship. John is my friend, we are friends – good friends – nothing more. Please do him the honour of accepting that possibility, even though I understand maintaining a friendship is an experience far outside your range of human interactions.”

Mycroft seems unperturbed. “Quite,” he murmurs. “As spoken by the time-proven national expert on the conducting of friendships. I do apologise for upsetting you, dear brother. You must believe me I spoke desiring nothing more but your true contentment. My assumption of a more intimate friendship between the two of you isn’t that outlandish considering the circumstances. It would explain his wish to remain at your side against all the odds,” Mycroft raises his eyebrows meaningfully, eyeing the experiment with a look of distaste.

Sherlock refuses to believe him, reading Mycroft’s words as forged with the deliberate intention to provoke.

“This is my work,” Sherlock bites at Mycroft. “John understands that. I advise you to concentrate more on yours and less on mine. Now, what are you here for?”

Mycroft flicks an invisible particle of dust from his left hand shoulder pad.

“Tea,” he asks. “I’ll make it myself since you refuse to comply with even the faintest modicum of true English hospitality.”

“I’d rather you just state your business and leave.”

Mycroft leans his umbrella against the wall, deposits the folder on the table, and walks over to the sink. He starts filling the kettle. Sherlock sighs. He shoves the file aside and starts packing the fingers in a Tupperware box. The bottles with poison and needles he clears away in a plastic box he carries over to his bedroom. All his joy in his experiment is ruined. Upon his return in the kitchen he glowers at Mycroft’s back but Mycroft pretends not to notice. He’s opening cupboards and shutting them again, some doors are closed with more force than is necessary. Sherlock flicks off the latex gloves he was wearing and throws them in the bin, puts the Tupperware box in the drawer in the fridge and starts folding the plastic sheet he’d covered the table with. Mycroft turns, a packet of PG tips in his right hand.

“Don’t tell me you and John actually use this to manufacture the drink that is one of the foundations of our nation,” he says with a shudder. 

“It’s perfectly fine,” Sherlock states.

“Cook would disagree with you most heartily.”

“Yes, well. She’s been dead these last seven years. And I’ve caused her worse grief than drinking John’s tea. There’s nothing wrong with it. You’re free to sod off and go enjoy your First Flush Darjeeling at the Diogenes. In fact, I’d prefer it if you would.”

Mycroft purses his lips and turns around to continue his search through the cupboards.

“No teapot?”

“John threw it away after I’d used it to collect urine for my dye-experiment. We make do with the mugs.”

“Six months,” Mycroft murmurs. “My admiration for the good doctor increases by the minute.”

“Oh, stop it, would you? He isn’t that easy to live with either, what with his insistence on eating a proper breakfast every morning. Now, what do you want?”

The kettle boils. Mycroft fills the mugs with a little bit of water, swirls it around and throws the water down the sink. He fills them up again and lowers a tea bag in each with deliberate gentleness. He spends the next three minutes staring at his watch before easing out the bags with a spoon. 

To stop the trembling of his legs Sherlock sits down. He can feel his teeth starting to grit and instructs his jaws into passiveness. Under the table he forces the tips of his fingers into the palms of his hands. Thank God he’s wearing his robe, now Mycroft won’t be able to observe the flexing of the muscles in his upper arm.

Mycroft opens the fridge and assesses the contents. “Have you got any milk?”

“We’re out of milk. John’s doing the shopping, remember?”

Mycroft sighs in his most put-upon manner and places the mugs on the table before sitting down opposite Sherlock.

“You really should give up the blatant aggression approach, Sherlock,” he says. His voice is flat.

Sherlock barks out a laugh. “Are you serious?”

Mycroft cocks his head, he’s actually pondering Sherlock’s glib question. “Yes,” he confirms after a while, “yes, I am. There is no reason for your stance. There never has been but most especially not now considering your present circumstances. Having the doctor around you does you a world of good. So move on, would you, like a good boy. I told you before. We should make a great team, you and I. The best. So why not join forces? We were meant to, you must remember, Sherlock.”

“You must be even more off the mark than I already considered you to be.” Sherlock raises his chin. He’s sitting in his own kitchen. He’s earning his own money. He hasn’t touched a penny from his allowance since Lestrade helped him find the Montague Street flat and Mycroft is perfectly aware of the fact, so Sherlock doesn’t have to answer Mycroft’s question. Not that he would if the circumstances were any different. They’ve been very different in the not too distant past and even then Sherlock refused to grace Mycroft with an explanation. 

Mycroft stares at Sherlock some more before bringing up his right hand and pinching the bridge of his nose. The gesture is almost identical to the one John makes when he’s tired or worried but far less endearing. 

Mycroft’s hand smooths down over his face, slow, as if he does indeed carry all the world’s sins on his back. 

_Qui tollis …_ Sherlock thinks. He allows his lips a wry quirk. Sherlock looks a little closer, notices the faint flecks of red in Mycroft’s eyes, the slight skewedness of the knot of his tie. Imperceptible to anyone else, but not to Sherlock. Mycroft’s hand falls down from his chin and takes a hold of the hot mug of tea, clinging to it like an exhausted swimmer clings to a piece of driftwood floating near in the sea. His gaze follows the glide of the hand, settles on the table, as if Mycroft is suddenly loath to flick his eyes up towards Sherlock. Mycroft _is_ tired. 

Still, it’s his choice to have his fat fingers in every greasy pie of trouble and stick his nose into all those boring little government problems. So Sherlock is not going to give in to misguided feelings of pity and have a conversation with Mycroft. He’s not going to help Mycroft defend himself and assuage his guilt. The righteous resentment feels too good. He carries it like his coat, an armour to shield himself from the world. A large part of his world is Mycroft’s doing. So Sherlock is not going to let him in the small safe hide-out he’s crafted for himself with the help of John. Mycroft may hammer away at the door with all his might, he’ll need a sturdier battering ram to break down Sherlock’s fortifications.

“Are you ready to state your business yet,” Sherlock says. His voice sounds even harsher than he intended. _Good._

Mycroft drags his head upwards. “If you wish, brother mine,” he says. His moment of weakness has passed. He draws the file towards himself with a resolute motion.

“John Openshaw …” he starts.

“Never heard of him,” Sherlock interrupts.

Mycroft looks up sharply. He raises an eyebrow and cocks his head to the side. “I know, Sherlock,” he says. “Pray stop this childish behaviour and listen to me. I’m in need of your help. I wouldn’t have come if I weren’t in want of it, I assure you. Yet, I think you’ll be most willing to offer your assistance once you’ve heard what this is about. John Openshaw is, or rather was, a minor employee in the Home Office. He graduated from Oxford last year. A smart fellow, eager, the cream of the crop of his year. He’d only got clearance for the lowest security levels of course.”

“Of course,” Sherlock mutters. He raises his mug and takes a deliberate sip of tea.

“He was found murdered in his flat this morning,” Mycroft continues. “The place had been ransacked, no item left unturned. TV, stereo set and computers gone. Car keys as well. The car was found three hours ago near the South Eastern Gas Works, completely gutted. The police have been persuaded to discontinue an investigation they hadn’t had the chance to start, thank God.”

Mycroft lifts a photograph from the stack of papers in the folder and makes to hand it to Sherlock. Sherlock keeps the fingers of his right hand folded around the mug, the other hand remains beneath the table. 

The photograph is slid towards him with a careful move, designed to conceal any sign of impatience. Sherlock ignores it.

“No ordinary burglary. Made to look like one, except for … this.” Mycroft’s voice has lulled down to an inveigling purr in uttering the last word.

The sentence is accompanied by the move of another photograph from one side of the table to the other. Sherlock’s eye is inescapably drawn to the glossy picture. Mycroft’s voice is reduced to a voice-over in a film as Sherlock focuses on the depicted scene.

A bed, the sheets rumpled and bloodied. Spread out on them is the body of a young man. He is gagged, arms and legs spread wide and bound with thick leather straps to the metallic railings at the head and the foot of the bed. The man, no more than a boy really, is very dead. His abdomen lies wide open, internal organs pushed aside roughly, intestines trailing out. The man’s mouth is stretched open wide, still screaming around the gag though no sound escaped to disturb the photographer. Even in death the eyes hold all the essence of naked fear. 

On the forehead, a neat row of small roundish objects has been arranged. Sherlock holds out his hand for the close-up which Mycroft quickly deposits. Sherlock squints, above the root of the nose and the inside corners of the eyebrows lie five orange pips.

“We’ve had a stroke of luck, actually,” Mycroft says. “He was found by his girlfriend and she had the presence of mind to call the office and not the police or an ambulance. Sadly she was in hysterics by the time our people arrived. She’s in the care of a private hospital now.”

“What are you looking for?” Sherlock asks.

A brief smile fleets over Mycroft’s features. Sherlock has bitten. His scowl doesn’t deter Mycroft in the least. Mycroft moves his shoulders inside his jacket, quick and graceful, like a cat that’s about to start lapping up the sweet milk.

“I’m so proud of you,” Mycroft murmurs. “My clever little brother. As for John Openshaw, he’s taken nothing, sold nothing and he was a shining example of that rarest category of government workers, incorruptible.”

Sherlock raises his eyebrows, Mycroft draws himself up in order to stare down at him down his long nose.

“Believe me, Sherlock,” Mycroft says and his voice has gone very quiet. “He was.”

“Fine. So now you want me to find out who killed your exemplary office boy.”

“If it is not _too_ much trouble.”

“Normally it would be, but … “ Sherlock hesitates and looks at his brother. Mycroft appears to be more relaxed now, though Sherlock can’t remember the last time he saw Mycroft truly carefree and at ease. He sits waiting patiently, hands open with the palm downwards on either side of the folder, ready to close it and take his leave or give it to Sherlock. Whatever Sherlock decides. Sherlock knows he’s being manipulated into accepting the case. But in his mind he’s already conceded. Those pips are too intriguing. He wants the case.

The door to the flat slams shut. Sherlock has been looking at the photographs so intensely he hasn’t heard John ascend the seventeen steps. John comes bustling through the sliding doors laden with Tesco shopping bags.

“Hello,” he says. His gaze travels between Mycroft and Sherlock and back again.

“Hello, John,” Mycroft answers genially. “I was just leaving.”

“Oh, please,” John says. “I can see you were having a nice brotherly chat. Don’t let me interrupt you. Go on. I’ll be off to the pub and leave you to it. Sherlock, clear away the veggies and the milk and meat once you’re finished, okay?”

He turns to leave but Mycroft is quicker, offering the chair he’s just vacated to John.

“Please,” Mycroft mutters. He closes the file and drops it in front of Sherlock. His right hand reaches into his jacket pocket to retrieve a set of keys and deposit them on top of the folder.

“You’ll find the scene untampered with. I made sure no one touched anything once they entered the flat. We can’t keep him lying there much longer though, I’m afraid. Normally I’d say you should eat but on this occasion I would appreciate you foregoing your evening meal. I’ll be awaiting your text.”

***

“And this will be your room.” Mycroft opens the door with a flourish before stepping over the threshold. Sherlock follows him into the room. Four beds with night tables, a row of lockers against the farther wall. Big windows with a view of the turf up to the school gates stretching away, no trees. Sherlock takes a deep breath a few times.

“Which bed is mine?” he asks.

Mycroft points at the bed nearest to the window. “That one. It will offer you the most privacy. I pulled quite some strings to ensure you would be put up in a room with only three other boys. Most rooms sleep ten.” He looks at Sherlock expectantly.

“Thank you,” Sherlock offers. He puts his bag and violin case on the bed.

“Your luggage will be brought up shortly,” Mycroft says. “This is your locker.” 

He opens the door. “See, it’s got your name and birthday on the inside. Would you like me to help clear away your clothes for you?”

“No, thank you, Mycroft. You’re very kind. But I’ll manage.”

Mycroft frowns. He brings up his hand and draws it over his face. Sherlock remains standing near the foot of the bed. Mycroft shifts his weight from one leg to the other. He hesitates a moment, then takes a step forward. And another one. He crosses the ocean of the dormitory floor separating them and halts when he’s just one more step away from Sherlock. He lays his hand on Sherlock’s shoulder. It feels heavy.

“I _am_ sorry, Sherlock.”

Sherlock flicks his eyes up at Mycroft. Mycroft looks … terrible. Sherlock doesn’t want to have to watch the doubt and insecurity on the face of his older brother. So he casts his gaze down again, to take up an intent study of the points of their shoes. The distance between them is nine, no, eight and a half inches. The leather of Sherlock’s shoes is still smooth and shiny with newness. They pinch a bit on the inside but the seller has assured them the shoes will widen with use. The floor boards have been coated with a fresh layer of varnish this summer. The layer beneath hasn’t been cleaned properly before the application of the new varnish so the coating is rough and uneven, attracting dirt instead of rejecting it.

“Whatever should you feel sorry for, Mycroft?” Sherlock speaks at last. He knows that is the right thing to say. In uttering that sentence he is doing nothing but stating the actual facts. Mycroft can’t help it Sherlock is standing here in this room he already hates with an overwhelming intensity. This room makes Sherlock want to shout with frustration and hurl himself at his brother to pummel him in his chest for bringing him here before gliding down on his knees to clasp his arms around Mycroft’s legs and beg him to please, please, please take Sherlock away from here, back home, back to the safety of the estate, where he belongs.

“Nothing,” Mycroft says. His hand travels upwards, into Sherlock’s curls, he cards them with his long fingers, slowly and attentively, before the arm drops down to his side. “Nothing,” he repeats.

“Shall we go and see whether the swimming pool is as big as they claimed?” Sherlock offers the question to end the awkward situation. Let them just pretend everything is normal, that this scene with Sherlock and Mycroft looking at each other in this horrid room that is to be Sherlock’s prison for the next few years is the most ordinary thing in the world. If they act believably enough, surely they’ll be able to convince at least the other, even if not themselves. 

Mycroft grasps the sentence like a line thrown to mountain climber who has lost his footing and is now dangling precariously over the edge of the precipice.

“Excellent idea,” he says. “And we’ll have a look at the music room. Your music teacher has assured me he looks forward to meeting you very much.”

***

“Remember Sherlock, you can call me anytime you want to. I’ve made arrangements with both the headmaster here and at my school. Please do telephone whenever you feel the need, don’t hold back.”

“No, Mycroft. I won’t. Thank you, Mycroft.”

“You do understand I had no choice, Sherlock.”

“Yes, yes. Of course. I’ll write to you every day, I promise.”

“All right. Well, I must go now. Or I will be late … “

“Yes. Thank you for accompanying me, Mycroft.”

“Goodbye, dear little brother of mine.”

“Goodbye.”

***

The other boys arrive shortly after. Mycroft has stepped through the door and Sherlock has stood in front of the window, watching Mycroft get into the Rolls and the Rolls driving off to bear him to his own school. Sherlock is clearing away his clothes, all the labelled vests and pants and socks and shirts and sports attire and jumpers and blazers and trousers, endless quantities of them, in his cupboard when two boys fall inside the room, one of them fair-haired, the other dark like Sherlock, giggling and tearing at each other.

“I won!” fair-head shouts.

“No, you didn’t, my foot was first into the room,” the dark one counters.

“Feet don’t count.”

“Of course they do, you sissy.”

“You piece of gob shite.”

The dark-haired boy reddens. “What did you call me?”

“You piece of gob shite. Because you are!”

The brunette lunges at the blond one. Fair-haired is prepared though and he manages to repel the attack. This infuriates the other boy even further. He hooks his leg around his opponent’s and soon they are on the ground. The fair-haired boy is the stronger one thought and soon he’s sitting straddling the waist of the dark-haired boy. He pummels the other furiously, aiming his blows at the head of the boy on the ground who’s holding up his arms for protection.

Sherlock’s instant reaction at the boys’ invasion was to freeze, but now he enters the fray, horrified by the ferocity of the blows being dealt. He latches onto one of the arms of tow-head in order to drag him off the other one. 

“What the bloody …” the boy screams. He tears around and aims for Sherlock. Sherlock holds him off easily. There’s a flurry in the corner of his eye. Two arms lock themselves around his throat and shoulders. He tries to turn around to confront his attacker but this only results in the other boy grabbing onto him. Soon Sherlock is the one on the ground, holding up his arms against two aggressors.

“You jammy sod!”

“Boys! Language! And for heaven’s sake, what do you think you’re doing?” a voice booms in the room. Sherlock’s assailants are pulled off him, their earlobes pinched between a pair of spidery-thin pale fingers. Sherlock looks up. A tall elderly woman, haggard like a whip but with a kind expression on her face stands gazing down on the three of them, the boy’s ears still held between her fingers. 

“You must be Sherlock,” she says. Her voice is rich and pleasant. “I’m Mrs Norton, your matron. This here,” a light shake of the fair-haired boy’s head, “is Ashley Warburton and this,” another shake, “is David Pleasance. Though I must confess in introducing himself he doesn’t appear to have lived up to his last name. Now what was this all about?”

The gazes of the other boys slant away. Only Sherlock remains looking at the woman. He clears his throat.

“Nothing,” he croaks. Because really, what was it about? He can’t say.

The woman, Mrs Norton, smiles at him. “Try to behave yourselves, if only for three minutes,” she chides the boys, giving them a final shake before letting them go.

“Yes, Mrs Norton.” The boys slink off to the beds that are on opposite walls next to the door. Sherlock stands and dusts himself off.

“Did you find everything?” Mrs Norton asks. “Your brother showed you around, didn’t he? I must say you’ve done a good job unpacking so far. Everything looks real neat.”

“Thank you. Nanny showed me how to do it,” Sherlock answers her. Behind her back one of the boys, Ashley Warburton, sniggers. Mrs Norton whisks around.

“You stop that right now, Ashley. I think I do remember what you were like when you first arrived here.”

The boy scowls at her, but mumbles: “Yes, Mrs Norton. I do apologise, Mrs Norton.”

“Fine.” She returns her attention to Sherlock. “If you’ve any questions you know where to find me, right?”

“Yes, Mrs Norton.”

She lifts her hand and tousles his hair, the gesture and the feeling of her thin long hands as they scrape between the hairs remind him of Daddy’s touch. Almost, but not quite. No, thankfully not quite.

She walks out and leaves him alone with the boys sitting on their beds, observing him. 

He ignores them and finishes his unpacking. He stashes the books he’s brought on the shelf above his bed, together with the little cassette recorder Mr Mancini has presented him with.

The boy’s eyes burn his back. He wills himself not to respond to their challenge.

“Nanny’s boy,” the light-haired one taunts. In his inner mind Sherlock can see the ugly smirk disfiguring the other boy’s face. 

_“Remember to forgive them always, Sherlock. For they don’t know what they do. They’re all stupid and ignorant but they can’t help it. You know better, though. You_ are _better.”_ Those had been Mr Talbot’s words to him on their last day together. 

Sherlock picks up his violin case and walks out. He doesn’t take the cassette deck and the sheet music Mr Mancini has given him. He’s not going to study, he’s going to provide himself with some comfort.

***

Upon his return he finds the two boys are gone. They’ve been replaced by a small sickly-looking boy with big wet eyes. He cowers at Sherlock’s entrance and shuffles over towards his bed.

“Hello,” Sherlock says. “I’m Sherlock. I sleep over there.” He points at his bed. In doing so he notices the vacant space on his shelf. The cassette deck is gone. He whips around and inspects the shelves above the beds of Warburton and Pleasance. The recorder isn’t sitting amongst the amassed jumble comprised on either shelf. Sherlock drops on his knees to inspect the floor under their beds but those spaces are empty as well. 

“Was anyone in when you arrived?” he asks of the small boy. The boy just looks at him before shaking his head in negation. 

Sherlock strides towards the lockers. “Which one is yours, please?” 

The child points to the one next to Sherlock’s. Sherlock makes for the other two. He jerks open the door of the most left locker and examines its contents with a quick look. Nothing. His gaze flicks up towards the name tag on the inside of the door. It is Warburton’s. 

The other door is locked. Sherlock studies the lock for a moment. He walks towards his bed and finds his pencase on his shelf. He digs up the little penknife he uses for sharpening pencils. The boy’s eyes follow his every movement.

“The other boys took something that’s mine,” Sherlock explains. “I’m sure they stashed it in here. So I’m going to retrieve it. I don’t do this sort of thing normally but they stole it from me.”

He wriggles open the lock, it gives way easily, and finds the recorder hidden under a stack of shirts. 

“See,” he shows the boy. “My violin teacher presented me with this in order to help him continue my studies with him. I record my studying the pieces and send him the cassettes and he listens to them and sends them back with his notes on my playing. I’ve already met the boys we share this room with. I don’t think they are very nice boys.”

To his dismay, the boy begins to cry.

Sherlock’s dismay disintegrates into fury when he opens his own locker and all his carefully folded clothes come falling out in a jumbled wrinkled heap. 

He sits down on the floor abruptly and presses the palms of his hands into his eyes to keep himself from shouting. He hadn’t locked his locker, assuming a closed door meant privacy but apparently these rules don’t count here. Sherlock shivers. For the very first time he truly understands what the Trojans must have felt as they stood on their city walls watching the dark-sailed ships of the Greek drawing nearer and nearer.

He allows himself a minute of despair. Then he forces himself up again and starts folding his clothes anew. Sherlock Holmes won’t be beaten by a pair of arrogant, swaggering bullies. He’s smarter than they are. And now he’s prepared. 

***

_“But of course you should remember John’s lessons as well. And apply them if necessary. ‘Oderint, dum metuant.’ A despicable motto for a sordid creature but quite appropriate to the handling of the average English public school boy. You’ll find a dose of violence might help you establish yourself, but guard against brutality becoming a character trait.”_

Mr Talbot’s advice rings in Sherlock’s ears as Ashley Warburton and David Pleasance make their swaggering appearance into the room again. He’s on Warburton in two strides and deals him a blow to the nose that sends the blood spurting. Warburton falls backwards, hands up to his face and starts howling from the combined shock of pain and surprise.

Before Pleasance can say anything Sherlock has latched onto him. His punch into Pleasance’s stomach region makes the boy double over and fall to his knees on the ground. Sherlock gives him a shove for good measure.

“That’s for stealing and going through my things,” Sherlock says. “I’d like to inform you I can do worse.”

He pivots on his heels and moves over to his bed, grabs a book from his shelf and falls down on the mattress.

“You dickhead!” Warburton screams. Sherlock doesn’t react. Behind his eyes he can feel the tears pricking, hot tears from anger and frustration and loneliness – the feeling of having been abandoned above all – but he won’t give them the satisfaction. He wills himself to keep reading his book, even though the letters are chasing each other in a merry dance over the page.

“Now what is it? This is the second time in less than three hours. What happened?” Mrs Norton dashes into the room. Sherlock lowers his book but says nothing. Warburton and Pleasance intensify their snivelling and bawling, putting on a real theatre show. The other boy just looks.

“Is anyone going to inform me?” Mrs Norton asks in an exasperated voice.

“He hit us,” yowls Warburton, pointing his finger at Sherlock. “We came in and he jumped us and started hitting us. We didn’t do anything, honestly.”

“Sherlock?” Mrs Norton addresses him. “I’m prepared to believe you didn’t do that because you have a predilection for disturbance. Please, explain what compelled you to treat your roommates this way?”

“They had stolen my cassette recorder. It was a present from my violin teacher. I found it in Pleasance’s locker. And they messed up the contents of my locker.”

“My locker was locked,” Pleasance calls. Both he and Warburton have quieted down upon hearing Sherlock’s testimony.

“True,” Sherlock admits. “The lock isn’t very sturdy though.”

Mrs Norton marches up towards the lockers and checks the lock on Pleasance’s locker. She retrieves a bunch of keys from her apron pocket and tries one of the keys on the lock.

“It’s still working,” she puzzles. “How did you do this?”

“I used my penknife,” Sherlock answers her.

She stands looking down at the lock, wriggling the handle a few times. Finally she seems to come to a conclusion.

“You can give that penknife to me,” she states. “I won’t tolerate any sub rosa lock-picking. But I don’t stand for any thieving or tampering with the belongings of others either. So you three have earned yourselves the pleasant task of scrubbing the shower room tomorrow. And school hasn’t even properly started yet. My most sincere congratulations to you, gentlemen. You’ve just set a new record for this school.”

***

The smell of the food on the plate in front of him makes him want to gag. It’s just vile. Sherlock stares down on the turbid brownish-greenish heap on the plate in front of him, leaking fat and juice. They can’t expect him to eat this. His thoughts fleet back longingly to Cook’s food. With hindsight he understands he has never appreciated her efforts the way he should have.

“Is anything wrong, Sherlock?” Mrs Norton asks. “Why aren’t you eating?”

“I don’t think I can manage, Mrs Norton,” he says.

“It’s very simple, Sherlock. Either you finish your plate or you don’t. Finishing will mean dessert and you will be allowed to stay up till half past eight. Not finishing will result in you going off to bed straightaway.”

“I’d still rather not eat this.”

“Fine.” The plate is swept away with a decisive movement of her right arm. “Off you go then, Sherlock. I will come and check on you in ten minutes.”

***

By the end of the week Sherlock’s vocabulary of bad words has increased from a laughable mere eight to an impressive one hundred and twenty two. He wonders whether Mycroft knows so many bad words. It seems most probable he does.

And Mr Talbot and John too. And maybe even Nanny and Cook. And Daddy. The discomfort Sherlock feels at the thought of Daddy knowing so many bad words keeps him awake for hours one night.

***

Warburton and Pleasance try to attack him in the shower room but Sherlock is prepared and he fights them off. Warburton is graced with a black eye and Pleasance hurts his cheek on the edge of a bench as he is sent crashing into it.

Mrs Norton eyes the three of them wearily after she’s stomped into the room and pulled Sherlock off Warburton. “I do hope you’re not going to keep this up for the rest of the year,” she tells them. “You’ve just earned yourselves one week of house arrest. Now get out of my sight.”

The friends appear to have learned their lesson and leave him alone after that.

***

The name of the other boy is Edward Winchester. He’s less successful at keeping the aggression of the others at bay. Sherlock soon realises the school populace basically consists of four different kinds of characters:

1\. The bullies. These are the boys that are looked up to by almost all the others.  
2\. The captains. These are the bullies’ closest friends. They would like to be a bully if they could but they lack the basic mixture of charisma and cruelty.  
3\. The hanger-ons. These range from boys that would like to be a captain but aren’t good enough at charming themselves into the bullies’ attention, right down to the boys that are willing to do anything in order to avoid being considered to belong to the last category.  
4\. The victims. 

Sherlock and a few others don’t fit in these categories. They’re outsiders. This would turn them into victims if they weren’t able to defeat the bullies with the help of their fists. The other boys prowl around him wearily, sniffing and ready to shred him to pieces at the first sign of weakness. 

Edward Winchester is a victim, there to be jeered at, and shoved and pushed about. He’s made to stumble as he hurries between classes so he will drop his books and the hangers-on will kick the books through the hallway and Edward will collect them, crying all the while. The howling the others start up freezes one’s blood.

Sherlock tells the boy he shouldn’t cry – the harder he cries, the more they will torment him. He advises Edward to fight back. He offers to teach Edward how to deal a good strike to the chin that will stun his attacker.

Edward just looks at him and starts to sniffle. “Thank you, Sherlock. But I can’t, I’m too weak. I know I am. I’m afraid of them.”

“But that’s ridiculous,” Sherlock says.

“I’m afraid of them,” Edward repeats stubbornly.

“Well, there’s no reason you should for they’re nothing but a pair of cowards. But I’m not going to protect you against them. We’re out here on our own. There’s only one person who will help you here and that is yourself.”

Edward starts to cry. Sherlock stands looking down on him. At his sides his hands curl into fists. Really, to be this weak, it is reprehensible. He feels sorry for Edward. Edward, who must be feeling even more lonely and desperate than Sherlock but Sherlock has spoken the truth. If he wants to survive here he can’t let Edward slow him down. That will only result in both of them falling victim to the packs of wolves surrounding them.

“I can’t help you,” Sherlock says and he turns and walks over to his own bed.

***


	5. Homo Homini Lupus est, chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Today it doesn’t work however. Mr Campbell’s vacant drawling is too blatantly irritating to ignore. Sherlock raises his eyes to the ceiling, swivels his gaze over towards the window, drives his fingertips into his palms so desperately he can feel the nails tearing at his flesh. It’s no use. He lets his head fall forward and starts banging the desk with it, welcoming the blinding pain as his forehead hits the hard wood again and again. From far away he hears a voice screaming: “stop it, stop it, stop it, stop it, stop it … “

Standing in the bedroom he wants to hug himself with glee. However, he recognises John would classify the reaction as ‘a bit not good’, so to prevent himself from making inadvertent gestures and noises of bliss he jams his hands into his coat pockets and presses his lips together.

John’s shudder is as obvious to Sherlock as if John were standing in front of him instead of hovering in the doorway. His rough exhale hits Sherlock’s ear about five seconds later. “Fucking poor sod.”

“Quite,” Sherlock murmurs his agreement. He whisks a pair of latex gloves out of his pocket and hands them to John, pulls on another pair himself. He divests himself of his coat and scarf.

“I propose we determine the cause and time of death to begin with,” he says. “Once that’s done you can have a look around the rest of the flat. See if anything strikes your eye in particular.”

“Fine.” John drapes his own coat over Sherlock’s. He throws a glance at the body on the bed again. “And I thought I signed up for danger when I decided to join the army.”

“Hush, John.” Sherlock holds out his hand to quiet his friend. He’s focusing on the tableau in front of them, a drama staged with an artist’s loving eye for theatrical effect. The setting is spectacular – the audience can’t help but be impressed by the stark, hideous beauty executed in bold strokes, brought to completion by the endearing five little pips that have found themselves such an innocent resting place: on the wrinkled forehead above the raised eyebrows of a minor representative of the British government. 

A great artist has been at work here.

For a moment, Sherlock is transported back to the week spent visiting Madrid together with Victor, ending up in front of Rogier van der Weyden’s _The Descent of the Cross_ at the Prado. He’d spent hours in front of it, his mind weaving into and out of the painting, admiring how the deliberate shortening of the cross added to the profound realism of the scene, following the symbolism-laden lines and colours of the composition, his gaze skipping from the small delicate details of the flowers on the ground to come to rest in the intricate folds of the loincloth swaddling Jesus’ hips.

Victor had entwined his elegant fingers with his and rubbed his shoulder ever so slightly against Sherlock’s. “It’s glorious, isn’t it?” he’d asked, his voice hushed with awe. “So not of this world and yet so profoundly a part of it. How is it even possible such beauty exists?”

Sherlock had said nothing. But later, back in their dingy small hotel room, he had cradled Victor’s stunning heart-shaped face in his hands and lost himself in the wonder of Victor’s lapis lazuli eyes, their shade and depth a perfect reproduction of the colouring of Mary’s robe. 

_“I love you.”_

_Victor’s laugh had been full of the zest for life – their life. “I love you too. I love you, I love you, I love you!”_

“Sherlock?”

“Yes.” John’s voice has him staggering back to reality. Sherlock breathes deeply several times. He discovers his hand is still raised in shushing mode. _Good._ His stance offers him the chance to pretend he was concentrating on present reality, the case, Mycroft’s case, Mycroft’s treat for his younger brother.

He takes one tentative step closer to the bed. “Do shut up, will you?” he exclaims. 

The balance of the universe restored, Sherlock settles down to drinking in the details of the crime scene. He sniffs. The smell of fear pervades the room, the vapour subjugating the stench of the blood, the piss and the shit soiling the sheets, the first rotting gases rising from the entrails flowing from the cavity of the young man’s disembowelled abdomen.

A fly buzzes languidly above the body, searching for a landing place. Sherlock swats at it with his hand. Not that it matters, most likely the insect has fed itself to bursting on the spread-out feast already, maybe even landed and rooted for a spot to lay its eggs.

“Shall I open a window?” John proposes.

“If you must.”

Sherlock walks over to the head of the bed and falls down on one knee to have a closer look at the bruising on the bound wrist. He tests the tightness of the leather strap, unbinds it and lifts the hand to study the chafing burns travelling from the edge of the hand to above the wrist. The man, not more than a boy really, must have been enduring excruciating pain. Otherwise he wouldn’t have inflicted these injuries on himself by tugging at the bindings with all the strength his body was able to summon forth while submitted to torture. He studies the markings some more, sniffs at the wrist, nudges the outer side and the inside past his cheek to feel the swollen, bruised skin, licks at it. He stands.

“I’d say he died from the rupture of several internal organs and the resulting blood loss when he was sliced open. The pain must have been atrocious. Before that he was quite severely tortured. Can’t see any marks though, I suspect his back will tell us an interesting tale. Can you give me a time of death?”

John checks the body with his deft doctor’s hands. “I’d say anywhere between six and eight this morning.”

Sherlock nods. “Thank you.” He falls on his knees next to the bed once more.

“I’ll have a look in the living room,” John says.

“Yes,” Sherlock says, not really paying attention to John’s words anymore, his gaze trained on the pattern of the blood on the sheet. “Yes. That’s fine, you do that, John… ”

***

Sherlock lowers Mycroft’s letter. He gets up from his bed and walks over towards the window. 

Outside it’s raining hard. The turf looks like it’s about to transform into a green sea, reducing the drive to an unstable bridge linking the school with the rest of the world. 

Sherlock knows Mycroft is doing his best and trying to comfort him by writing down all this nonsense about how he will become used to school life and actually grow to like it. How he’s contacted the arts master to tell him Sherlock is a good actor and has informed his music master about Sherlock’s abilities on the violin. Sherlock feels very guilty for not appreciating all Mycroft’s efforts to make school bearable but it is just no good. 

***

_”Shall we go for a walk in the woods?” Daddy asks._

_“Yes, Daddy. I’d love to,” Sherlock answers._

_“Come on then.”_

***

“Daddy, Daddy!”

Oh God, the nightmare again. Sherlock bolts upright in his bed. He’s sure he has cried out to stop Daddy from reaching for the door handle. In the darkness he sits listening for the sound of the breathing of the others, to hear whether they are awake as well as he or still asleep.

Please let them be asleep. Sherlock doesn’t want to think of the consequences of his shout having been detected by either Warburton or Pleasance. They will interpret his cry of anguish as a sign of weakness and try to attack him again, to turn him into a simpering victim for them to bully and do as they like with. Sherlock is so tired of the fighting. He loathes the constant battle for dominance that’s raging around him and was so glad he’d finally been able to free himself out of that disgusting demeaning melee. 

Sherlock sits listening for any sound, any snigger or hitch of breath to indicate he’s woken them. Because then he will jump out of bed and punch them in the face, fast and with a deadly aim. But he’d hugely prefer to lie down again and try to catch some more sleep. 

As silent and attentive as a leopard he sits. Ready to spring into action if need be. But all is quiet on the other side of the invisible border that’s drawn halfway through the combat zone of the dorm room. Judging by the quality of their breathing, both Warburton and Pleasance are fast asleep. His focus travels back to his own territory.

“Sherlock?”

“Yes.”

“You miss your Daddy too?” Sherlock can hear the desperate plea for a kind answer in Edward’s voice. 

“Yes,” is all he can manage. “Go to sleep, Edward. I apologise for waking you.”

“It doesn’t matter. Good night, Sherlock.”

“Yes, good night.” He turns his back on Edward and lies in the dark, staring into the darkness until Edward’s breathing evens out. 

Then he pulls the blankets over his head and starts to cry.

***

Of all the things Sherlock loathes in school, sports ranks among the highest.

They’re standing in the sodding rain on a wet field, a scraggy line of tired little boys, shivering in the all-pervading wetness and Coach is shouting at them. He’s a big bellowing brute of a man, with an outrageous military moustache, excessively proud of the fact he has played for a number of years in the national Rugby Union Team. His basic stance concerning education seems to be that a sane, healthy boy will delight in participating in team sports. Any boy begging to differ is corrected in loud tones which derive straight from the top of Coach’s impressive lungs and are hurled into the boy’s face from a close distance with lots of flying spittle to underline the point.

The man referred to himself as ‘Coach’ in his introduction and expects them to use the term in addressing him. Sherlock has no idea what the man’s real name is. He could look it up, he supposes, and Mycroft is bound to know. But really, Sherlock just can’t be bothered.

After their ‘instruction’ has ended, they’re split up into teams and told to start playing. Remembering the desirable outcome of the last time he engaged in a game of football, Sherlock makes to go for the ball by running straight into one of their opponents. He crashes to the ground with a grimace of acute pain on his face and grabs for his ankle as if in agony.

Coach lumbers over towards him and looks down on him. “Cut the theatrics, Holmes,” he says. “That didn’t hurt. Or if it did you’re even more of a sissy than I’d made you out to be. Get up and play.”

He walks off. Sherlock stares daggers at his retreating backside before sighing and standing up. 

Coach turns. “Play!” he roars. “Don’t stand there like a frozen pillar of salt but help your team score a point. You too, Winchester. Come on!”

Sherlock sighs again. He abhors the man, abhors his team mates, abhors the boys in the other team, abhors the fields, abhors the school building, abhors the whole school terrain, abhors Mycroft for taking him here. No, he corrects himself, he doesn’t abhor Mycroft, he loves Mycroft. No, the one Sherlock should abhor is Mummy. Mummy is the one responsible for sending him into exile to this horrid place. And upon reflection Sherlock finds he honestly doesn’t like her, a searing white-hot flame of acute anger at the thought of her ripping through his body.

“Holmes! Move that lazy ass of yours, goddamn it!” 

Coach’s clamour snaps Sherlock’s attention back to the sopping misery of the football field. The game seems to consist of a mad scramble for the ball executed with lots of impressive sliding on the wet grass. So far none of the teams has managed to score. Sherlock eyes the passing of the ball between the different players for a moment. The moment the ball is passed into a direction that could considered his generally, he dashes forward and intercepts the ball. Keeping the thing rolling next to his right foot he darts across the field, outrunning and outmanoeuvring several players of the other team. In front of the goal he pauses and calculates before driving the ball home in the top left-hand corner. The boys in his team start a massive whoop of triumph. Sherlock turns and walks back to his own side of the field. 

Sherlock repeats the performance ten more times. The boys in his team are wild with enthusiasm though Sherlock detects some muttering of “he should pass the ball and give us a chance” as well. He ignores their grumbling, safe in the knowledge Coach will have nothing to reproach him with and so leave him alone for the next few weeks. The man is always droning on about the importance of winning and thanks to Sherlock the team he was assigned to has won. So Coach should be content and direct his attention to someone else for a while.

Coach cuts an impressive figure, arms folded in front of his broad chest, looming over the assembled disarray of the changing room, as Sherlock wanders into it after his shower. He lets his gaze travel over Sherlock deliberately. From the top of Sherlock’s head down to the tips of Sherlock’s toes and back again. Sherlock withstands the visual onslaught and makes for his underwear.

“You’re one hell of a cheeky bastard, aren’t you, Holmes?” Coach growls. “Believing yourself to be awfully clever and a great athlete to boot. You might actually be right about that last supposition, we’ll get around to testing that, but as to the first it is my pleasure to disappoint you. Football, in case you hadn’t noticed, is considered to be a team sport. It’s not about showing off and ego-tripping all over the field but about the combined action of all the team’s players.”

He wrinkles his eyes in disgust.

“If I catch you at such behaviour again in the future I’ll take my measures.” Coach throws Sherlock a last withering look and stalks out of the changing room.

Sherlock looks after him before shrugging his shoulders. There’s just no pleasing some people.

***

_School for Boys  
1st October, 1984_

_Dear Mr Talbot,_

_I do hope you are well._

_Cook sent me a hamper two days ago for which I was very grateful as the food here continues to be unfit for human consumption. With it came a letter in which she wrote she missed you very much._

_I miss you too. I miss everyone and I miss my room, and my tree house and the garden. This place is just horrid. I will never like it here._

_The other boys are even worse then I feared. I took all your warnings to heart and that’s served me well so far. All of them are either the most awful bullies or cowards. Except, the bullies are cowards as well, I suppose. I really don’t understand how it is possible Mycroft can enjoy school so much._

_The teachers are all boring and stupid. Apparently Mycroft told the headmaster I should be given extra work to keep me occupied and that’s all it is, just extra work. Never an interesting puzzle to solve, all they come up with is more drudgery. It’s hateful._

_The only master who understands what he’s doing is the music teacher_

_My sincere apologies for this dismal letter. But I’m so unhappy here. I’m very jealous of the boy you’re tutoring now. I know jealousy is a vice and I should fight it but I don’t care and I don’t want to._

_Your former pupil Sherlock  
(who misses you very, very much)_

***

Oh God, he’s bored. He’s so bored he wants to shout with it. 

At the front of the class Mr Campbell is droning on about the first farmers and their organisation of society, illustrating his tale with extensive drawings on the blackboard. Every time he turns his back on the class the boys give up the pretence of paying attention and get on with their own things, sending messages back and forth, pinching and shoving each other, staring out of the window or playing Noughts and Crosses or Hangman. 

Sherlock hasn’t bothered to find out whether Mr Campbell is perfectly aware of these goings on and has decided it is safer to pretend he doesn’t notice or whether he actually couldn’t care less. Vaguely, he hopes for the latter although he detests Mr Campbell. He detests the boring nasal voice and the pipe smell he carries in his clothes and he detests Mr Campbell most of all for the huge amount of extra work he gives Sherlock which is all so boring, boring, BORING!

He’s handed in his five-page essay on the progresses made during the Bronze Age and in return he’s been asked to write a ten page essay on the progresses made during the Iron Age. That’s just more of the same. Where’s the puzzle or the fun in that?

He plays with his pencil, doodles on the last page of his workbook and sighs. He closes his eyes, trying to think of anything, anything to fight the sluggish boredom that’s sending him into a stupor. He starts counting backwards from one million, that should do the trick, watching the liberating dance of the numbers before his eyes.

Today it doesn’t work however. Mr Campbell’s vacant drawling is too blatantly irritating to ignore. Sherlock raises his eyes to the ceiling, swivels his gaze over towards the window, drives his fingertips into his palms so desperately he can feel the nails tearing at his flesh. It’s no use. He lets his head fall forward and starts banging the desk with it, welcoming the blinding pain as his forehead hits the hard wood again and again. From far away he hears a voice screaming: “Stop it, stop it, stop it, stop it, stop it … “

***

Mycroft’s hand. Mycroft’s warm hand. On his forehead first. And then holding his own hand.  
That’s good.

Mycroft smells nice. That’s because he smells of Mycroft. Mycroft carries the scent of his own room, and Daddy’s study, and the lake, and the tree house. It’s a warm smell. Now Mycroft squeezes Sherlock’s hand. Like he’s giving part of his personal odour to Sherlock, a gift to make Sherlock feel better again.

“Sherlock, are you awake?”

Sherlock screws his eyes shut tighter. He wants nothing more right now than to lie here with Mycroft seated next to him. Well, not here exactly because with a sudden jolt he realises were they are. He’s lying in the sick ward at school and Mycroft has come over to check on him. Which is a bit not good but if Sherlock keeps his eyes closed he can pretend he’s lying in his own bed and Mycroft is visiting him in his own room and that would have been perfect.

“Sherlock. I know you are awake.”

Now Sherlock has to giggle and he opens his eyes and looks at Mycroft to find his brother staring down on him with anguished concern. Mycroft’s stricken look tugs at his heartstrings. Mycroft must be very unhappy to wear that expression. Sherlock doesn’t want that.

“Yes, I’m awake.” His voice sounds strange in his own ears, all croaky. “Why are you here, Mycroft?”

Mycroft watches him closely, almost like he’s scrutinising Sherlock. He hasn’t let go of Sherlock’s hand. For that, Sherlock is very grateful. He presses Mycroft’s in return to urge him silently to talk, to say something, anything. Mycroft brings up his other hand to his forehead and pinches the bridge of his nose. The gesture strikes Sherlock as one a grown-up would make, it carries so much worry. When did Mycroft start doing that?

“Mycroft?”

Mycroft shifts in his seat and inhales loudly.

“You had some sort of catatonic attack in history class, Sherlock. Do you remember? Naturally the school called me and I came as fast as I could. I had to promise my headmaster I would be back by nine this evening at the latest. It’s extra-ordinary my school was prepared to let me go to visit you at all. I do hope you can appreciate they’re exceptionally kind towards us. What happened, Sherlock? Please tell me if you can.”

Sherlock thinks. He can’t recall anything except struggling against the state of massive boredom. He fought it. He did. He’s sure of that. Set himself a task. Grasped for anything, anything to keep the tedium at bay. But it seems he failed. He must have succumbed to the sluggish monster because that’s the way the apathy works. It doesn’t swoop down but envelops him, creeping around ever closer and closer until it silently smothers him, clasping its clammy hand over his mouth and holding him tight and he tries to fight and raise the alarm but it’s no use. He finds himself conquered and all he can do is submit to it in defeat and shout. Shout himself hoarse … 

“It was the boredom attacking me,” Sherlock explains.

Mycroft shuts his eyes as if he’s the one in pain. He inhales audibly again.

“I asked the school to give you extra work.”

“Yes, but that’s boring as well. All they want me to do is write them essays about dull subjects. They think they’ll keep me occupied if I write them a lot of words. They never give me an interesting puzzle to solve. This whole school is nothing but tediously dull.” The complaints tumble from Sherlock’s mouth like a body of water that has been gathering behind the sluice gates that have been opened at last. He forces himself to stop.

“I see,” is all Mycroft says. He stands with an abrupt movement and walks over to the window. The view from the window is on a drab inner court, lying grey and forlorn under an overcast sky, yet Mycroft seems to believe the scenery most compelling. He puts his hands in the pockets of his trousers and gives the wall on the opposite side of the court all his dedicated attention.

“This school, Sherlock,” he starts, “is the best school England, and thus the World, has to offer to prepare a boy for entering one of the prime institutions of secondary education. Tens of thousands of boys envy you your position here and justly so. You are surrounded by boys that will one day aid us in ruling this country. So far your attitude has been one of consistent negativity, your own letters to me as well as the reports I get from your headmaster bear profound evidence to that.”

Sherlock says nothing. He would dearly like for Mycroft to sit down next to him again and grab his hand.

“You should know Mrs Norton suggested to have you tested. She told me you actively shun partaking with all the other boys except to get into fights. I can see that.”

Sherlock thinks. Oh, the marks on his throat. Well, his attacker got himself a blue eye and a punch in the stomach for that. 

“Naturally I told her no such thing would happen. But it would help if you’d change your attitude, if only a bit. For Christ’s sake, Sherlock, I’m not yet sixteen. I’m nothing but a schoolboy myself and all these worries get heaped on my plate. Mummy is no help at all. She just tells me to arrange everything as I see fit. The state she’s in now she’d sign her own death warrant …”

Mycroft shuts his mouth abruptly and claps his right hand in front of it. 

“Oh God,” he moans. He rests his forehead against the window and stands breathing hard. It’s like that time during the spring break when Mycroft broke down and couldn’t stop crying. Sherlock remembers how afraid he’d been then, sitting on his bed and watching Mycroft falling to pieces. This is just as awful. And it’s Sherlock’s fault. 

Mycroft appears to have pulled himself together again. He puts both his hands on the windowsill and leans down on it hard, pushing all the blood out of his hands. He starts talking again with a tight, clipped voice.

“This recent turn of events makes it very hard to advocate your case. Why did you have to do that, Sherlock? Boredom? What kind of explanation is that? They told me you went berserk banging your head on that desk and screaming to the high heavens. Some of the boys in your class were so shocked by your behaviour they were exempted from lessons for the rest of the day.”

“I don’t think they minded,” Sherlock quips, the assessment rolling out of his mouth against his will, before he can stop himself. Mycroft turns his head and looks at him.

“I don’t care one whit about those others,” he asseverates. “But I do care about _you_.”

The next instant he’s sitting beside Sherlock on the bed and holding Sherlock’s hand.

“Don’t you see what a huge disservice you’re doing yourself with this attitude, Sherlock? I understand you don’t pick the fights. But because you choose to be on your own the popular boys must every now and then try to beat you in order to bring you under their command. That’s the way it works in society. And this school is nothing but a miniature society. The only way to break that circle is to become a popular boy yourself. And you could be if you wanted to. You’re smart, and witty and strong. You are a leader, Sherlock. If only you would choose to be.”

Sherlock can’t do anything but look at Mycroft. His brother can’t be serious. Surely Sherlock is hallucinating, hearing this all wrong. Doesn’t Mycroft know who Sherlock is?

“I’ll talk with the headmaster,” Mycroft continues. “I’ll ask him if it’s all right for me to contact Mr Talbot and have him share his ideas on educating you with your masters. That’s another highly unusual thing to ask, Sherlock. I do hope you appreciate that. Most of all I hope you will show your gratitude if both Mr Talbot, of whose consent I’m certain, and the masters will agree to this solution.”

Sherlock considers. Short from being with Mr Talbot again, because that’s what would really be the best solution but Sherlock is ready to accept that’s not possible any more, Mycroft’s proposal sounds like a very good idea. 

His left hand, his free hand, is plucking at the sheets, over and over and over. Sherlock should probably say something now or Mycroft will be really worried.

“That would be wonderful,” he says. “Thank you, Mycroft. Thank you for coming. Thank you for being my brother.” 

“Oh, Sherlock,” Mycroft says. The words wring themselves from his throat. “Please tell me you do understand why I’m here.”

Sherlock thinks. He closes his eyes and upon re-opening them sends them darting over Mycroft’s seated figure. Mycroft who is sitting next to him with a prim posture, doing his utmost to plaster a very grown-up almost business-like look onto his face. Is this Mycroft? He must be, he looks like Mycroft and the smell is right, that was the first thing that hit Sherlock, Mycroft smells like Mycroft. But Mycroft would never ask him a question to which he has no answer. Or if he did, he would explain why he asked Sherlock that question. So who is this big boy-man who is sitting on his bed? 

“Please, Mycroft,” he answers. “I’m sorry, but I don’t know. I really don’t know.”

He shoots out from under the blankets and latches his arms around Mycroft’s neck, clinging to him, holding him close. Mycroft’s arms wrap themselves around Sherlock’s body instantly and he’s pulled so tight against Mycroft’s chest he can hardly breathe.

“Oh God, Sherlock! Whatever are we going to do?”

Sherlock says nothing. All he can do is push his face into Mycroft’s shoulder. The minute he’ll stop doing that the tears are going to flow and Sherlock should prevent that from happening. So he just hangs onto his brother. He’s never going to let go. 

***

The smell of chlorine in the pool house makes Sherlock want to gag every time it assaults his senses. However, the idea of the gentle waves soothing his limbs helps him overcome his initial revulsion, and after floating in the waters for five minutes his nose has adapted itself to the smell. If Sherlock closes his eyes and deploys his mind hard enough to imagining he can even transport himself to the small lake and discover himself swimming on a hot summer day, waving at John who walks past, pushing a wheelbarrow.

He starts a vigorous breast stroke, gliding through the water with effortless ease, finding pleasure in the exercise. Swimming for twenty-five metres, turning, swimming another twenty-five metres to the other end of the pool, turning, and swimming back again. The monotony of the labour feels exhilarating after the drudgery of disappointingly easy school work and the mind-boggling complexity of interaction with his schoolmates and the masters.

Suddenly Sherlock finds he’s lost count on the number of tracks he’s covered. He turns his eyes towards the clock on the wall. He has been in the water for about half an hour. To punish himself for his absentmindedness he decrees he should do another thirty rounds. He sets his teeth and starts on the new cycle of swimming rounds.

“That’s really impressive,” he hears. He whips his head around in the direction of the voice.  
A young man dressed in a training suit is standing at the far side of the pool, stopwatch in his right hand. 

“You were miles away,” he continues. “Yet you kept up a relentless stroke. You were actually going at sixty nine metres a minute which is really fast considering your length. Wherever did you learn to swim like that?”

“My brother taught me.”

The young man laughs. “Did he? We should invite him to train the Olympic team. That would ensure us of winning every medal.”

Sherlock has no idea what the Olympic team is so he just smiles politely while treading water. 

“I’m Mr Wilberforce,” the man introduces himself. “I was hired to assist Coach in your sports training. He will be concentrating on the team sports and I will be around to help you in your endeavours at individual sports. Need any advice or encouragement on your athletics, boxing, fencing, the oriental martial arts or horse-riding, I’m your man. And who are you?”

“My name is Sherlock Holmes, Mr Wilberforce. I can box as well. John taught me.”

“That’s good. Is he your brother? So you’re an all-round sportsman, eh? Boxing is a true gentlemanly sport. Sadly it has been allowed to deteriorate to nothing but a street brawl.” Mr Wilberforce sighs and rolls his eyes in an exaggerated manner that sends Sherlock into a giggle.

“Yes, yes, you may laugh. But it’s bad, it really is.”

Mr Wilberforce glances down at his stopwatch. “Why don’t you go over to the side of the pool?” he suggests. “When I give you the signal you start swimming with that lovely clever stroke, giving it all your dedication and attention for … let’s say … two hundred and fifty metres. You’ve already done quite a lot of swimming. I’d like to see your performance after you’ve already tired yourself out.”

Sherlock nods and swims over to the short side of the pool.

“Right. Three, two, one, off you go!”

Sherlock pushes himself off and starts swimming furiously. Mr Wilberforce jogs next to him, ejaculating a steady stream of encouraging words.

“Don’t do that or you’ll exert yourself. Find that beautiful easy rhythm that suits you so well. — Yes, that’s better, much better. — You’re doing great, Sherlock. — You’re doing beautifully well. — Come on, you can do it.”

He is getting very tired.

“Don’t slow down now,” Mr Wilberforce coaxes him. “Only ninety metres left now. We both know you can do it. — Keep up the pace, boy. — Yes, wonderful. Wonderful! You’re doing just fine, Sherlock. — Yes, go for it. Don’t slow down now. Give this to me, Sherlock. I know you’ve got it in you.”

The last track feels like a descent into hell. Sherlock’s whole body is aching with the effort. The water has transformed itself from a friend into a foe, backtracking on its promise to support him like the sea did on that dreadful holiday day.

“Don’t give up now, Sherlock. Just ten more metres, eight, seven, just five more, four, three, two. That’s a boy. I’m so proud of you.”

Strong arms haul him out of the water and wrap him in a towel, start stroking his back vigorously.

“That was a marvellous time you gave me there, Sherlock. Three minutes and fifty eight seconds. That’s really … That’s really incredibly fast,” Mr Wilberforce enthuses. “You should join the school’s swimming team. You’re still too small to partake in any competitions of course but with the proper training this school can sit back on its heels and relax while the cups and medals are being heaped at its feet.”

“I don’t know,” Sherlock says. “I don’t like sports.”

Disappointment travels over Mr Wilberforce’s features. He inhales audibly.

“That’s a rather severe statement from a boy who’s just given me an excellent time. I’m sorry to hear it. But I can’t force you to do something you don’t want to, of course. Goodbye, Sherlock.” 

Mr Wilberforce turns and walks away. Sherlock is left standing at the side of the pool. He feels a little sorry for Mr Wilberforce who’s been nothing but decent to him. But he doesn’t want to become a part of something in this place. If he did that he would betray Mr Talbot, and John, and Daddy. He can’t do that. 

Not yet, anyway.

***

_School for Boys  
16th October, 1984_

_Dear Nanny,_

_I do hope you are well. I’m sorry for upsetting Mycroft so much and you as well. I’m better now. I won’t do it again. Did I really tear up all my stuffed toys once when I was three years old? I can’t remember. Were you very angry with me?_

_I was happy to read Mummy is feeling better and up and about more so you could help Cook make so many jams and preserves. The prune preserve was delicious. I already ate half of the pot you sent me. Thank you very much. Have you managed to make the soap this year? Please send me some if you have. The soap here is not as nice as yours._

_Thank you for knitting me another cardigan. The colour of the wool sounds interesting. I don’t think I’ll be allowed to wear it here in school though, not even during the weekend._

_I miss you very much. The boys are all stupid and awful. A boy gave me a shove yesterday for no reason at all but I fought him and gave him a good smack on his chin. That shut him up pretty thoroughly. Except now I have to scrub the shower room again. I think that’s highly unfair as I didn’t pick the fight._

_Please give my love to everyone._

_A tight hug from Sherlock_

***

“Sherlock, have you got a minute?”

The other boys are tromping out of the classroom, giggling and shoving each other. Sherlock frowns at Mr Robinson, their music teacher. “History class starts in five minutes.”

And that class room is at the other side of the school, endless hallways away.

“I won’t keep you long,” Mr Robinson smiles. “I only wanted to ask you whether you’ll be able to meet me here at five this afternoon. I would like to introduce you to someone.”

Sherlock’s first instinct is to tell Mr Robinson no, sadly he’s already busy at five but maybe Mr Robinson will tell Mrs Norton. Mrs Norton, of course, is perfectly aware that five o’clock on a Thursday afternoon is one of the few hours every week that are Sherlock’s to decide what to do with. Then he would be caught in a lie and Mrs Norton has made it abundantly clear she despises liars. Sherlock could tell Mr Robinson he doesn’t like the idea of being introduced to someone – in fact over the past few weeks he’s had enough introductions to last him a lifetime – but maybe that statement would hurt Mr Robinson’s feelings and, like Sherlock wrote Mr Talbot, Mr Robinson is one of the few people in the school Sherlock does actually like.

So Sherlock shrugs his shoulders and mumbles that all right, he will be there but he must be off now.

“Remember to bring your violin with you,” Mr Robinson calls after him.

Upon entering the music room at five o’clock Sherlock finds Mr Robinson talking to an older boy who’s seated holding a cello between his legs. 

“That’s him?” the boy asks, none too friendly upon noticing Sherlock.

“Yes, Oliver,” Mr Robinson answers genially. “That’s Sherlock Holmes. Don’t look at him like that. Just wait till you hear him play. Sherlock, I want you to meet Oliver Graves-Steel. Oliver is the other great musical talent this school has the honour of harbouring. He’s been studying last summer with the famous Anner Bijlsma in The Netherlands.”

“Hello,” Sherlock offers.

The boy just glares at Sherlock before turning to Mr Robinson. “How old is he? You can’t be serious.”

“Oh please, Oliver. Don’t judge the book by the cover. Sherlock, Oliver is a great lover of Bach. He would love to hear you play the fuga of the third violin sonata. You will find the sheets over there on the music stand.”

Mr Robinson draws up a chair and smiles at Sherlock encouragingly as he seats himself. 

Sherlock walks over to the indicated music stand and looks at the sheet. He studied the sonata with Mr Mancini last summer. The fugue is the most complex part but Sherlock knows he can play it. The open hostility of the older boy would have been disconcerting a few weeks ago but Sherlock’s attitude by now is one of general indifference towards his surroundings. If the boy doesn’t like his playing that’s _his_ problem. Sherlock doesn’t want to play for him. He’s only doing it because Mr Robinson wants him to.

He plants his feet firmly on the ground, lifts the violin up to his chin, closes his eyes for a brief moment, takes a deep breath and he starts playing. And oh, it is difficult, it is a challenge but he enjoys challenges and he can almost hear Mr Mancini’s barely concealed gasp of excitement as he takes the first hurdle and everything around him falls away, recedes until his world consists of nothing but himself and his violin and this marvellous ingenious music that was thought up by a genius almost four centuries ago. He’s not playing the music, the music plays itself, one note following after the other with predetermined inevitability. These notes reorder the universe, creating sense where there was only chaos, and he can feel himself spiralling upwards, dancing on the notes, up and up, higher and higher, out of the school room and up into the celestial skies.

After he’s played the last note Sherlock keeps floating high above the school room for what feels like far too short a time before crashing back to reality. He blinks his eyelids rapidly several times in order to focus himself. Mr Robinson sits grinning widely, the boy looks suitably impressed.

“Told you so, didn’t I?” Mr Robinson nudges Graves-Steel in the side. It’s a gentle movement, full of affection.

Mr Robinson stands and walks over to Sherlock. 

“That was marvellous, Sherlock. Well, I knew you would be able to pull it off of course but you actually brought a depth and understanding to the music that’s well beyond your years. I simply don’t see how it is possible. I have nothing to teach you, that’s for certain. But let Graves-Steel play for you now. You’re not the only master musician in the making around here.”

A music stand is put before the big boy’s nose, some sheet music deposited on it and the chair drawn away to give him some space. 

“You come over here next to me, Sherlock,” Mr Robinson pats the chair to his right. Sherlock sits down obediently.

The boy begins to play. Sherlock recognises the piece at once, the prelude of the first suite for solo cello. All arpeggios, yet profoundly moving. And this boy plays exquisitely. Sherlock recognises a fellow-spirit. This boy doesn’t play because he wants to please an audience, he plays because he has to. Because not-playing will mean withering and dying. He doesn’t elaborate, doesn’t beautify what doesn’t need to be embellished. He just plays the notes, boldly, starkly, eminently. 

After the sound of the last note has died away Sherlock springs up from his chair and starts clapping. “Bravo!” he yells.

The boy neighs his head in acceptance of the praise.

“You didn’t do at all badly yourself,” he concedes.

“Excellent!” Mr Robinson breaks the moment. “I knew you would be able to recognise each other’s talent.”

He walks over to the piano. “Of course you’ll both get to play your solo at the musical evening in December but I propose we treat our public to a category of chamber music they’re less likely to be familiar with. Of course you both know Beethoven’s piano trios. Don’t you agree with me the _Archduke_ is the most popular for very good reasons?”

***

_School for Boys  
2nd November, 1984_

_Dear Mr Mancini,_

_Enclosed you will find the recording of the Telemann _Fantasia_. I practiced very hard on the second Allegro. I do hope you will agree with me all the hard work paid off. As always I look forward to your remarks and corrections._

_Yesterday Mr Robinson introduced me to a boy who plays the cello. Mr Robinson said he’s very talented. He played the prelude of Bach’s _Suite_ number one for us and I couldn’t help but agree with Mr Robinson. _

_Next Mr Robinson proposed we form a piano trio and play Beethoven’s _Archduke_ trio for the Christmas concert. I couldn’t very well refuse, what with the nice way in which he asked us to. Besides, I have to get used to playing music together with other people probably, apart from you that is. And the other boy, his name is Oliver Graves-Steel, truly is a very good musician. Much better than Mr Robinson himself. Mr Robinson admitted as much._

_I still hate it here but the idea of playing this trio brightens my days a bit. I do hope you will be able to come and listen. Shall I ask Mycroft to arrange transport for you?_

_You must help me with practicing my part. I’m busy on the first allegro now. I’ll send you a tape in three days I think._

_Thank you for thinking up the solution of the tape recordings as a way to continue to teach me. Hearing your voice correcting me makes me feel less lonely over here._

_A warm hug from Sherlock_

***

“ _Thou speak'st aright;_  
I am that merry wanderer of the night.  
I jest to Oberon and make him smile  
When I a fat and bean-fed … ”

The boy stops. He opens and shuts his mouth a few times.

“ _When I a fat and bean-fed …_ Hold it, I mean … _When I a fat and bean-fed …_ ”

Sherlock, who’s standing to the side of the stage impersonating a tree of the forest, rolls his eyes. Again. Why did they ever give the part to this incompetent who isn’t able to memorise four sentences straight? It isn’t as if Puck has got that much text in the play. The essence of the role is to whirl across the stage and initiate practical jokes on all the others. To beguile the public with his wicked wizardry.

No one else on stage appears to appreciate what they’re doing. Sherlock has read and memorised the whole play, even though his part in it is to stand and wave his arms about every now and then, and was bowled over by the beauty of the language and the images the words inspired in his head. He hasn’t understood all of it, but he _feels_ what the play is about.

“Come on, Taunton,” Mr Lowsley encourages. “We’ve practised this over and over again. Give me the lines. _When I a fat and bean-fed …_ “

“I’m sorry, Mr Lowsley,” Taunton snivels. “I really don’t remember. It’s so difficult. All those stupid old-fashioned words.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes again and sighs.

“Who did that,” Mr Lowsley asks in a tight voice. His gaze travels over towards the enchanted forest. “Which one of you thinks he can do better than Taunton? Not that he’s not doing very well. And watch your language, Taunton.”

Sherlock stands frozen. Did he sigh _that_ loud? Surely not.

“Thought so,” Mr Lowsley says. “Come on Taunton. I’ll give you your cue:  
 _When I a fat and bean-fed horse beguile,_  
Neighing in likeness of a filly foal:  
And sometime lurk I in a gossip's bowl.  
Now continue, please”

Taunton stammers: “ _In … In very … In very likeness of a roasted crab,_  
And when she drinks, against her lips I bob  
And on her wither'd dewlap pour the ale.  
The wisest aunt, telling the saddest tale,  
Sometime for … Oh hell, Mr Lowsley. I don’t know.”

“ _… three-foot stool mistaketh me;_  
Then slip I from her bum, down topples she,  
And 'tailor' cries, and falls into a cough;  
And then the whole quire hold their hips and laugh,  
And waxen in their mirth and neeze and swear  
A merrier hour was never wasted there.  
But, room, fairy! here comes Oberon,” Sherlock shouts. 

The whole theatre goes quiet. The only sound comes from tree number nine (Edward Winchester) who shuffles his feet in an awkward combination of awe and the urge to start crying.

“You,” Mr Lowsley says. “Tree number three. Come over here.”

Sherlock walks up to Mr Lowsley.

“And you are?”

“My name is Sherlock Holmes, Mr Lowsley.”

“Fine. You’re one of the new boys, aren’t you? Wait, Holmes you said? Oh, you’re the clever one. All right Give me Puck’s text from: _Through the forest have I gone._ ”

“ _But Athenian found I none,_  
On whose eyes I might approve  
This flower's force in stirring love.  
Night and silence.--Who is here?  
Weeds of Athens he doth wear:  
This is he, my master said,  
Despised the Athenian maid;  
And here the maiden, sleeping sound,  
On the dank and dirty ground.  
Pretty soul! she durst not lie …” Sherlock continues, jumping about the stage in the great leaping strides that must surely be Puck’s mode of conveying himself, whether he is busy impressing his master the Fairy king, or throwing about his fairy dust and weaving his magic on the hapless ordinary mortals. 

Mr Lowsley laughs. “Stop it, Holmes, that’s enough.” He wipes his eyes and clasps his hand in front of his chest. “Oh my, oh Holmes. That’s wonderful. The part is yours. Taunton, you’re demoted to the role of tree number three. Just remember to wave your arms about at the required intervals. Tell me, Holmes, what’s your age? I’d reckoned you to be seven or so.”

“I am, Mr Lowsley.”

“Are you now? Remarkable, most remarkable. Well, anyway, welcome aboard Holmes. I’m sure we’re all most happy to have you popping up and saving our play. Now I suggest we go to Act Three, Scene Two. You Willoughby: _I wonder if Titania be awaked …_ ”

***

_School for Boys  
20th November, 1984_

_Dear John,_

_How are you? Over here the leaves are already turning their colours. Do you remember that day last year when we helped you_

Sherlock looks down on the words he has written. No, this won’t do. He picks up the sheet of paper and start shredding it into pieces. Each piece is picked up and torn into the smallest possible parts. He gathers them up in his hands and walks over to the paper bin at the far end of the study room and lets them fall into the bin, a vortex of papery snow flakes.

Back at his desk he starts his letter to John anew.

_School for Boys  
20th November, 1984_

_Dear John,_

_How are you? Over here the leaves are already turning their colours. There is a big red beech near the back of the school’s terrain that is almost as beautiful as the one in the little copse. I go and look at it every day._

_Thank God I’ll have to stay only another four weeks here and I’ll be home again. I do so look forward to sitting in the kitchen together with you and Cook. And you must make me tea in the shed again. Though I guess I won’t have to run away from boring people this year._

_I hope not for I’ve met nothing but boring people over here. Thank you for saying in your last letter I would get used to being in school, that was most kind of you, but I just know I never will, John. I hate it here. Every day here feels like being punished._

_The only joys here are making music and I’m acting in the Christmas play which is also nice, I suppose. Except all the other boys acting in it are stupid and dull and don’t understand what it is about. Still, I wish you could come and see it. However, Mycroft told me Mummy has said she would come and watch me so I guess that isn’t possible._

_Mycroft has also arranged for me to be added to the school’s swimming team. That’s even worse. I know he tries to help me but he refuses to understand I’m really miserable here. Thank you very much for writing you do understand, even though reading your letter would have made Mycroft very angry._

_I count the days till I’ll be home again._

_Lots of love from Sherlock_

Sherlock checks the letter for any spelling mistakes before folding it. He starts addressing the envelope.

_Copperbeech Hall_

Home.

 

***


	6. Homo Homini Lupus est, chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the other end of the line Mycroft is breathing heavily. “Sherlock,” he says in a strangled voice. “Sherlock, please calm down. I understand you are upset. I’m upset myself. I don’t understand what can have happened. I spoke to Nanny yesterday evening and she assured me they would go. She told me Mummy was looking forward to it, she told Nanny she couldn’t wait to see you on the stage after Nanny read Mummy her last letter from you.”

By the time they’ve finished searching John Openshaw’s flat, dawn is approaching. John looks like he could topple over backwards any minute and fall asleep the moment his body has obtained a more or less horizontal position. 

Sherlock is seething inwardly with frustration. Their meticulous going-over hasn’t given him the slightest indication what the men who have spent hours torturing Openshaw and ransacking the flat were looking for. He’s dusted various objects for fingerprints knowing they will all prove to be Openshaw’s or his girlfriend’s. The last act of the murderers before leaving the flat was a spot of hoovering Mrs Hudson herself couldn’t have bettered. The men have left the hoover close to the front door in the small hall of the flat as a testimony to the thoroughness of their methods. Sherlock has kicked the offending object several times in a vain attempt to vent his anger. 

Hours wasted to deduce one as for now useless fact: whoever had wanted John Openshaw killed had hired the best lot to do the job. Sherlock’s last hopes of finding something to set him in the right direction are the contents of Openshaw’s laptop. A quick inventory of the contents of Openshaw’s desk gave him the correct idea for the password and he’s copied all the information on the hard drive to have a look at the files once they’re back at Baker Street.

“We’re all done here,” he informs John. 

Outside again they find the city is waking up. The first commuters are hurrying to or from the Tube. In the Starbuck’s on the corner of the street the lights are on and the personnel can be spotted preparing themselves for another day.

Sherlock hails a taxi. John slumps into his seat with a heavy sigh of relief. Sherlock sends off his text to inform Mycroft he’s basically found nothing of interest. He’s about to stash the phone into his pocket when it starts ringing. Mycroft’s number.

“Yes.” He ascertains to load the word with a staggering amount of annoyance.

“We’ve found another one.”

Sherlock can feel his heartbeat go faster. Oh! Wonderful. This is news, this looks promising! He struggles to prevent the huge grin of delight from establishing itself on his features.

“Text me the address,” he says, “I’ll meet you there.”

John throws him an enquiring glance.

“That was Mycroft,” Sherlock tells him. “They’ve found another one apparently.” He marvels at the steadiness of his voice. Right now he could leap into the air with all the excitement coursing through his veins.

John closes his eyes and inhales, a sharp intake of breath. Sherlock’s phone pings to announce the text message. 

“No Baker Street then,” John says. Dejection, wry amusement and sadness manifest themselves in those four words.

“You can go if you want to,” Sherlock offers, “I’ll hop out and find another taxi. It’s been a long night after all.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” John scoffs. “Of course I’ll come with you. You don’t think I’d let you go galloping off around London after these blokes all by yourself, do you? Just let’s stop somewhere to buy us a coffee and something to eat. I’m starving.”

“Fine. Thank you.” John’s determination to follow him wherever he chooses to go gives him more comfort than any shock blanket could ever do. Sherlock leans forward and slides open the partition to the driver’s compartment to give him the new address.

“And stop at the next coffee shop we pass, will you?” he adds.

***

“Here’s your extra work, Holmes.”

“Thank you, Mr Fallon.”

Mr Fallon is one of the few teachers who seems to understand Sherlock’s need for stimulation of his mind. Maybe it’s easier for him than for the others, he’s their maths teacher after all. On the other hand, Mr Talbot’s method to teach Sherlock Latin was to give him a text and a grammar with the instruction to translate the text and hand the work back to Sherlock the next day with the mistakes underlined in red and the order to do it again. That’s a far more invigorating approach to learning a language than just memorising all the irregular verbs. Why can’t his teachers understand that?

Sherlock looks down on the paper Mr Fallon has handed him. Oh, this is fun.

_White’s first move is f2-f3. Three moves later it’s checkmate for black. Which pieces made which moves?_

“Thank you, Mr Falllon,” he breathes, looking up at Mr Fallon to smile at him. His eye falls on the speck of yellow on the lapel of Mr Fallon’s dark jacket. “Did you enjoy your soft-boiled egg for breakfast?” he asks.

Mr Fallon looks taken aback. “Wh … what?” he stutters. Sherlock gestures at the lapel of his own blazer, Mr Fallon looks down his nose at his jacket, frowns, and wipes his hand vaguely at the wrong spot. “Thank you, Sherlock. Yes, it was nice,” he says. He still hasn’t detected the tiny fleck on his jacket. Well, it’s not _that_ visible, Sherlock supposes.

“Thank you, Mr Fallon,” he repeats to send the man back to the front of the classroom again.

***

The curtain drops and at the other side of the fabric the applause starts. The parents and guardians clap politely, the boys whoop and thump the theatre floorboards with their feet. The actors are crowded together in the wings of the stage, some grinning broadly, others looking exhausted.

“Right,” Mr Lowsley says, dabbing at the beads of sweat on his forehead with a bright red handkerchief. “Percy-Smith and Willoughby, you go first. Cameron and Knightley next. And then you, Holmes, together with Fitzpatrick and Sutton-Hershey.”

The curtain is pulled up again and Percy-Smith careers off to one side of the stage, Willoughby to the other. They run onto the stage to meet in the middle, clasp hands,jolt their joined hands into the air, bowing to an appreciative public. The cheering audience increases its noise to give vent to the level of its appreciation.

Sherlock stands hopping on his feet awaiting his turn. During the play he was so engaged in acting his part and concentrating on his cues he hasn’t had time to check the audience for Mummy’s and Nanny’s presence. Both Mycroft and Nanny have written to confirm the two women will be there, Mycroft adding he was very sorry he wasn’t allowed to attend the play as well as the musical evening. He will hear Sherlock perform next week, together withMr Mancini.

“You, Holmes.” Mr Lowsley gives him a gentle shove between the shoulder blades and Sherlock dashes onto the stage. He’s greeted with a loud roar of enthusiasm. Several people raise themselves from their seats, nodding and smiling in his direction, bringing their hands together with great vigour. Sherlock bows in all directions drinking in the enthusiasm of the public. Not that he needs it, he has known all along he is the best actor of the lot of them.

Whenever Sherlock raises his head he scans the crowd for Nanny’s or Mummy’s face among the visages grinning up at him. The stage lights shine into his eyes, hindering his vision. He doesn’t see them.

Backstage, grown-ups are elbowing each other politely to get into the dressing rooms. Boys are clapped on their shoulders by pleased fathers, hugged by equally proud and teary mothers. Sherlock finds his way among the melee to a place in front of the big mirror to clean his face of the greasepaint. Behind his reflection the door to the room is standing wide open to allow people to file in and out. Sherlock sits wiping his face for a long time. The space gradually empties of people; they trickle out of the room in small groups. Sherlock stays seated before the mirror until he’s the only one left. He lets the hand holding the tissue drop down in his lap. Neither Mummy nor Nanny are going to show up.

***

“You promised they would come!” he shouts into the receiver. “You promised, you promised me!”

“Sherlock...” Mrs Norton lays her hand on his shoulder. He ignores it.

On the other end of the line Mycroft is breathing heavily. “Sherlock,” he says in a strangled voice. “Sherlock, please calm down. I understand you are upset. I’m upset myself. I don’t understand what can have happened. I spoke to Nanny yesterday evening and she assured me they would go. She told me Mummy was looking forward to it, she told Nanny she couldn’t wait to see you on the stage after Nanny read Mummy herlast letter from you.”

“She was lying! She’s nothing but a liar!”

“Sherlock,” Mrs Norton admonishes him. “Please remember you’re speaking of your lady mother.”

Sherlock raises his hand to wipe the tears of rage from his eyes. He doesn’t care one whit that he’s calling Mummy names. She deserves to be called names for letting him down. For letting him sit in front of that mirror until Mr Lowsley had spotted him and asked him why he was still sitting there and hadn’t gone to the assembly hall where a celebratory supper for the players and their family was being served. Sherlock burst into tears at Mr Lowsley’s questions, sending his startled arts teacher into a search for Mrs Norton. 

“I’ll try to contact Nanny now and find out what’s the matter. I’ll call you straightaway after. And try to get a hold on yourself. Screaming murder won’t bring them now and it certainly won’t help to make you feel better. I can see this is a severe disappointment. But it won’t be the last you’ll have to handle in your life.”

“Oh, Mycroft … “

“I know, Sherlock. And I really am so very, very sorry. I sympathise with your feelings of frustration, I do. But it’s no use giving in to them. I’ll call you as soon as I can. Stay near the line.”

Sherlock hears the click of Mycroft ending the call. He places the receiver back in its cradle. 

“Mycroft is phoning them now,” he says. Mrs Norton touches his shoulder again.

“Let’s hope nothing is seriously wrong,” she says, “but your mother must have had a good reason for not coming. She would have loved to see you, Sherlock. I’m convinced she would. You were the star of the stage. I can’t remember having seen a boy act that well before. Mr Lowsley is thrilled to bits, he keeps telling us he’s discovered the new Laurence Olivier.”She nudges him towards a seat. “You sit down here, Sherlock, to await your brother’s call. I’ll go and make you a cup of hot chocolate. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” 

He falls down into the chair and leans his head against the back. “Yes please, Mrs Norton.”

“I’ll be back in a minute,” she says and walks off to her small kitchenette.

Sherlock looks around him. He’s never been in Mrs Norton’s apartment before. She has an office next to the maternity ward. He’s been obliged to visit her there regularly, to explain about his scrapes with one of the other boys. But Sherlock is certain no boys are invited here in her little flat under the eaves of the school building. She’s not the headmaster after all, whothrows a high tea for group of ten to fifteen boys every Sunday afternoon. Sherlock has been already been told he’s expected to present himself on a Sunday in February. 

The room is quite cosy. The walls are painted in a buttery-yellow colour which glows faintly in the light thrown by the lamps that are placed strategically around the room. The sofa and the chair he’s sitting in are covered in faded chintz with a pattern of red and orange roses. The top of a small rosewood dresser next to the window is crammed with picture frames. Sherlock wipes at his face for the last time and rises to take a look at them. 

The photos in the frames all show a man and a small boy, alone and together, in old-fashioned clothes. In some pictures a woman is present as well, in one photo she’s dressed in a short skirt with high boots while in another she’s wearing an ankle-length dress with an intricate geometric pattern. Sherlock recognises the younger Mrs Norton in her. He studies the photographs some more. The boy must be her son, he has got Mrs Norton’s eyes. His smile on the other hand, resembles that of the man in some of the pictures.

“Here’s your cocoa, Sherlock.”

Caught, he whips around. “I’m sorry, Mrs Norton.”

She laughs. “Oh, you may look.”

“No …” he hesitates before continuing. “I meant … I mean, I’m sorry your husband and your son are dead.”

“Oh,” she says. She puts the cup down on the table quickly before sitting down on the sofa, her whole lean frame exuding a strange mixture of resignation and exhaustion. “Oh. How on Earth can you know that? Who told you?” She beckons him to come closer.

_That big picture of Daddy on the coffin. Daddy smiling, smiling at him. So bright._

“No one told me. I just saw.” He reaches for the cup. That instant the phone starts ringing.  
Mrs Norton reaches over and picks up the receiver.

“Mrs Norton. – Yes, of course.” She hands Sherlock the receiver.

“Are you feeling a little better?” Mycroft asks.

Sherlock nods. Of course Mycroft can’t see that. “Yes, Mycroft,” he croaks.

“I’m glad,” he hears his brother telling him. “I spoke to Nanny just now. She told me they were all ready to go, David was waiting outside with the Rolls, they had already put on their coats, when Mummy had a panic attack. It was so bad Nanny decided in the end to call the doctor.Mummy is quiet again now but Nanny has been shaken badly. She kept repeating how sorry she was they hadn’t been able to come and watch the play.”

“Oh … “

“Please remember to call her tomorrow and ask how she is, Sherlock. And make an enquiry after Mummy’s health as well. I’ll phone the doctor myself tomorrow and ask for his opinion. Nanny made it sound like a serious relapse. And Mummy has been doing so well, lately.”

Mycroft prattles nervously, quite unlike himself. Sherlock understands his brother needs to hear his own voice in order to settle his unease at this new turn of events. 

“I will,” he says at the appropriate intervals. “I do.” And: “Yes, Mycroft. I understand.” If only he could be with Mycroft now, they could hold on to each other for comfort.

After what feels like a long time Mycroft says: “Well, it’s already way past your usual bedtime. You must be exhausted. I hope you’ll be able to sleep well, Sherlock. I’ll call you tomorrow. Good night.”

“Good night, Mycroft.” 

Mrs Norton easesthe receiver out of his hand. Her other hand brushes his shoulder.

“Would you like to sit on my lap while you drink your cocoa, Sherlock?”

He thinks for a moment before replying: “Yes please, Mrs Norton. I would like that very much.”

Her lap doesn’t feel as safe and comfy as Cook’s, or Nanny’s, or John’s. Or Daddy’s. But it’s better than nothing. He’s learning to grab his chances, he’ll grasp every opportunity at some tenderness he’s going to get.

***

Edward is crying again. He’s curled on his bed, a snivelling heap of wretched loneliness. The hitched up leg of his trousers reveals the purple and yellow bruises on his shin bone. 

Sherlock stands in front of his own bed, looking down on Edward while opening and closing his fists mechanically. He hates Warburton and Pleasance for their casual cruelty and their choosing of this weak little boy as their victim. 

“Don’t cry, Edward,” he says. “Please, don’t cry.”

Edward doesn’t listen but goes on weeping. “I want to go home,” he blubs. 

Sherlock sighs and squeezes his palms into his eyes. Doesn’t Edward understand how lucky he is? He has a home to long for. A home to return to. Since that evening three days ago when Sherlock sat waiting and waiting in front of the mirror he isn’t that sure he’s got a home anymore. He doesn’t know where he belongs. He’s the one that should be bawling his hurt and frustration, not Edward.

He picks up his violin and marches off, slamming the door to behind him.

“Sherlock!” Mrs Norton tuts in a disapproving voice. She’s walking past with a huge stack of freshly laundered sheets in her arms.

“I’m sorry, Mrs Norton.”

But he isn’t. He isn’t sorry at all.

***

Oliver smiles and nods at him, he takes a deep breath and applieshis bow to the strings for the finale. The three of them are splendid together. Mr Robinson made a mistake in the second half of the _scherzo_ and Sherlock saw a twitch of annoyance fleet over Oliver’s face but Mr Robinson plodded on with admirable fortitude – what else could he do? – and Sherlock is certain they are the only people present who have heard the false note, and Mr Mancini of course.

His violin teacher has already greeted Sherlock, walking into the dressing room where the three of them sat reading the score together for the last time, Mycroft following close on the old man’s heels.

“Mr Mancini!” Sherlock cried, overjoyed at the sight of his old teacher. He rushed towards the old man and clasped his arms around Mr Mancini’s figure, laying his cheek against his potbelly. 

“Sherlock,” his beloved teacher murmured and tousled his curls. 

“Thank you, Mycroft. Thank you,” Sherlock exclaimed next and threw his arms around his brother’s neck. Mycroft looked happy and relaxed and inordinately pleased. So different from the last time he’d visited. But Sherlock has worked hard to clear his mind of the memory of that awful day.

Now he’s standing in the spotlights, playing this divine music with two people he actually likes. Making music together, it’s exhilarating. To add his little part to this volatile chapel they’re building together, to set it floating around them, lifting them up to transport them to a world filled with rapture and joy.His bow dances over the strings with the marvel of it. 

He trusts Mr Robinson for his kindness, and his support and enthusiasm. His teacher may not be a very good musician himself but he understands what good music is about and edges on Sherlock and Oliver both to an increasingly high standard of performance.

Oliver he admires. In him Sherlock recognises true musicality, the ability to read the score and grasp what the composer wanted to convey, why a note has to sound just so and any other interpretation would be wrong. To sit and listen to him playing, to play together with Oliver is a pleasure, one of the few joys the school provides. Instigating a blissalmost as profound as Sherlock’s relished remembrance of the few hours spent making music together with Daddy.

Oh, how proud Daddy would be if he could see Sherlock now. And suddenly Daddy is sitting in the audience, fingers tented in front of his mouth, eyes closed, listening to the music with an expression of celestial elation on his face.

Sherlock is playing for Daddy.

His last note, a happy note, because Beethoven is a happy composer, _”if only people would listen”_.He lifts the bow and the next minute they’re standing and bowing to the public that’s clapping loudly – again – but now Sherlock knows Mycroft is there, and Mr Mancini. His eyes don’t scan the crowd. He doesn’t have to. He can feel their warmth and goodwill floating up towards him, enveloping him. He knows he’s played well, all three of them have. 

Oliver nudges his side: “You were great,” he says. 

Sherlock smiles up at him. “You too.” 

“You were both great,” Mr Robinson grins. “Thank you for letting me play with you. Apologies for that stupid mistake.”

Oliver makes a dismissive gesture with his hand.“Thank _you_ for playing with us.” Sherlock nods his head fervently in agreement with Oliver’s words.

The three of them stand grinning, and bowing, and for the first time in many months Sherlock is content, feeling fortunate to be alive. He’s lacked the sensation ever since that dreadful day he turned seven. He presumed it to be blown to smithereens, vanished high up into the air, like … No, he won’t think of that. Because right now, in this moment, he’s happy. Truly happy.

***

The Rolls turns to the left and the pillars of the gate blink up in the light thrown by the headlights.

“Home.” Mycroft’s voice is warm with satisfaction. He extinguishes his hand and squeezes Sherlock’s knee. “Are you glad?”

“Yes,” Sherlock replies. It’s good to be home. Even without Mr Talbot, without Daddy. Because he knows every inch of the estate, and he’s yearned for it, longed to be back here, thought about home constantly every horrid day he had to spend in that awful school. He suffered a moment of weakness, standing next to Edward’s bed, but he’s recovered now.

“Sherlock?” Mycroft sounds unsure. “Sherlock, when you see Mummy, will you tell her being in school pleases you? You may be as honest as you want to be with Nanny and Cook and John, they already know you’ve no affection for the place. But Mummy doesn’t. I don’t want her to feel guilty for having sent you there. The doctor told me last week she’s really going to be better in the long run. As long as she isn’t confronted with any nasty shocks. It would be such a shock to her if she found out you’re not contented.”

Sherlock nods his understanding but finds he is seething inwardly. Mummy sent him off to this stupid school he hates, sent him off for reasons that are beyond him. He doesn’t understand why she dislikes him so much, doesn’t love him. He is her child, she should love him. In every story he’s ever read mothers were loath to see their sons depart, not actively encouraging them to step out into the world. Without a proper goodbye, without the fervent wish for them to return soon whole of body and soul. 

It’s not right and yet Mycroft is defending her and asking _him_ to comply and act in this wicked cruel charade.

In the dark of the backseat of the car his hand is suddenly snatched into the hot dank warmth of Mycroft’s. 

“I know what you’re thinking, Sherlock,” Mycroft voice reaches his ear. “And believe me, I do understand and I do see your point. But please, please remember she is very ill and refuses to acknowledge it. What can we do, Sherlock? I can’t force her to seek help … “ He falls silent, his fingers fretting with Sherlock’s. 

They sit next to each other, two tranquil statues of English fortitude. Mycroft moves his head to stare out of the window into the turbid blackness of the night. Slowly his fingers uncurl themselves from Sherlock’s and he withdraws his hand.

***

Nanny and Cook stand awaiting them in the hall. Sherlock dashes straight into Nanny’s welcoming arms, laughing and crying at the same time and she hugs him tight, laughing and crying as well. She’s so thin, her skirt too wide around her feeble hips but it is so good to hold her, to smell her clean scent of fresh laundry and lavender and the safety of his bedroom.

Cook is all abundant peachy flesh, kissing him over and over again, exclaiming how thin he is, asking whether they don’t feed him in that school of his? She’s going to fatten him up and she will send him a hamper every week next term. They must come to her kitchen, she’s baked them a Victoria sponge cake to welcome them back home.

“But you should go up to see Mummy first,” Nanny interrupts her. “She’s so eager to see you both. She’s all anxious over that panic attack, oh that was so dreadful, to have to see her suffer so. I thought we were right back to that awful time, when it had just happened … “

She prattles on while they mount the stairs, Sherlock holding onto Nanny’s hand, Mycroft closely behind them.

Nanny knocks on their parents’ door and throws it open without waiting for a reply.

“Here they are,” she cries gaily.

Mummy is seated in front of the vanity. She puts down the perfume flask she is holding and rises from the little stool. “My darlings,” she lisps, spreading her arms wide open, her pink silk robe flowing with liquid grace from her shoulders.

“Mummy,” Mycroft makes for her with haste and embraces her. Compared to him she looks very small and fragile, like a precious porcelain doll in his arms. But that’s because Mycroft has grown so much, he’s as big as Daddy was, or at least as big as Sherlock remembers Daddy was. He stands holding on to Nanny’s hand, waiting his turn. Mummy pats Mycroft’s shoulder blades and slips out of his arms.

“And my brave little boy. My dear, I understand you’re doing so well in school. That’s just marvellous, isn’t it? I’m so very sorry Nanny and I couldn’t make it to the play. But sadly I was indisposed.” She laughs and her eyes wander away from him towards Nanny. “I was, wasn’t I?” she asks in a quivering voice.

“Yes, Valerie, my child, you were. But you’re better now,” Nanny answers her.

“Yes,” Mummy agrees, “yes, I am. I truly am.” 

She stands staring down at Sherlock and Sherlock stares back at her. They both haven’t moved yet to hold onto each other. Mummy brings up her hand and fidgets with the frilly edge of the robe at her neck. 

“I am,” she repeats more firmly. She turns away from them and walks over to her night table next to the big four poster bed. She picks up a thick wad of files that’s lying there.

“Come have a look, Mycroft,” she continues. “Come and look what those idiots have sent me concerning their investigations into the death of your father.” 

Her elegant fingers turn some of the pages, leafing through them, languidly, almost absentmindedly at first. Like she’s flicking through a book in the library, deciding whether she will sit down to read it or put it back on the shelf. Sherlock, Mycroft and Nanny stand watching her. Sherlock shoots Nanny a quick glance and catches the look of terror creeping up from her neck to cover her face. The speed of Mummy’s searching through the files increases. She starts flipping the pages faster and faster until she’s tearing at the paper and her small graceful hands are turned into clawing talons. She’s muttering under her breath, her voice gaining strength: “My husband, my precious husband. My Sherlock, my marvellous, gorgeous Sherlock. Mine, only mine. And they stole him from me …”

Her voice has risen until she’s screeching out the last words with a choked voice full of passionate rage. Sherlock slants his gaze towards Mycroft who’s standing open-mouthed, his shoulders hanging down in dejection. Nanny has covered her face with her palms.

“Valerie, please,” she moans, “please don’t do this. Don’t do this to yourself. It’s unworthy of you …”

Mummy pivots on her heels and hurries to Sherlock. She falls down on her knees in front of him and hugs him, her arms as strong as a pair of constrictors intend on pushing all the air out of his lungs. She starts kissing his face fervently, pressing her lips everywhere, on his nose, on his cheeks, his forehead and chin, his jaw, his neck, ending with a zealous repetition of the caresses on his lips. “My Sherlock, my beautiful, beautiful Sherlock,” she murmurs.

The crunching squeeze of her arms numbs him into a state of frozen passiveness. He feels nothing but revulsion, and a deep primal fear of her, as if he was indeed walking in a forest unaware of the danger until she dropped out of a tree with the intention to strangle and destroy him. He wants to ask her to let go of him but his tongue is stuck fast in his mouth, soldered against his palate and he can do nothing but endure her attentions in the hope she will tire of him before she does actually kill him.

Just as sudden as his mother fell onto him she drops her arms. She gets up with difficulty, a look of weariness on her face.

“I’d rather you go now,” she says. She sounds like her usual self again and later, when Sherlock is sitting in the kitchen with his sponge cake and his cocoa and Cook busy behind his back while prattling on about everything that’s happened to her in the past few months, Sherlock realises her quick transgression from a state of hysterics to one of normalcy is what frightens him the most.

“You stay, Mycroft.” Mummy holds Mycroft by the arm. “I really want you to have a look at those papers.”

“All right, Mummy.” Mycroft pats her forearm reassuringly. “We’ll have a look at them now.”

***

“So you liked acting in the play?” John asks. They’re sitting side by side in the shed, cradling a mug of hot tea in their hands. On the workbench in front of them a plate of anchovy paste sandwiches rests next to the Bunsen burner. 

Sherlock thinks. “Yes,” he says at last. “Yes, I really liked it. I was someone else while I was up on the stage. That was nice.”

“I would have liked to have seen you, even though that could never be, of course.” John raises his mug to his lips and takes a sip.

“I’ll play for you now, John.” Sherlock puts down his mug and his mince pie and wipes his hands. He walks to the middle of the shed and closes his eyes for a moment to concentrate.

“My mistress with a monster is in love.  
Near to her close and consecrated bower,  
While she was in her dull and sleeping hour,  
A crew of patches, rude mechanicals,  
That work for bread upon Athenian stalls,  
Were met together to rehearse a play  
Intended for great Theseus' nuptial-day.  
The shallowest thick-skin of that barren sort,  
Who Pyramus presented, in their sport  
Forsook his scene and enter'd in a brake  
When I did him at this advantage take,  
An ass's nole I fixed on his head:  
Anon his Thisbe must be answered,  
And forth my mimic comes … “ Puck gloats, strutting about, boasting of his wicked pranks to his master the fairy king.

John claps his hands enthusiastically, in a childlike manner, laughing with delight.

“Oh, Sherlock. You _are_ Puck! Sherlock and I once went to Stratford upon Avon together to watch the play and …” John falters, reddens and looks down suddenly. “I meant your Daddy, Sherlock.”

“Of course you did, John,” Sherlock says. He looks at John who is swallowing quickly several times and has brought up his other hand to steady his trembling mug.

“Yes, of course,” John confirms. He gazes ahead of him, past Sherlock, before pulling himself together again with a visible effort. He turns on his chair and points at a Christmas card. 

“Mr Talbot sent that to me. He writes the little boy he’s tutoring has become quite attached to him already. No kicking him in the shins, apparently.” 

“I only did that once,” Sherlock pouts. 

“He didn’t mind,” John hastens to reassure him. “He laughed when he told me about it. Called you a stubborn little blighter. He liked that. In the card he complains about the lack of trees where he’s living now. He writes he misses them, and the gardens are less attractive than ours in autumn. Well, that’s only to be expected for this is the most beautiful place in the world …” His voice trails off.

“Yes,” Sherlock agrees. “Yes, it is, but … you know, John … with Mummy … well, you know …” He hesitates, he doesn’t want to say this for to speak the words is to lend them weight and endorse a reality that he doesn’t want to grant existence. He struggles and then he can’t help himself, the sentences burst from his mouth: “I’m afraid of Mummy, of who she is. I don’t want to be near her. So maybe Mycroft is right, maybe I’m better off at school after all.”

John has put down the mug and is staring at him with his mouth open. “Oh, Sherlock. It pains me so to hear you say so. Nanny assured Cook and I she is much better. Your mother’s been researching and started writing a new book in October and it has been going very well. I had to prepare the blue garden for winter in the dark because she was in her study every day.”

“Are you afraid of her, John?”

“No,” John says. “I’m not. But she is my employer and I must do as she pleases if I want to keep on living here, and I want that, more than anything else in the world.”

“I want that too, John. Everyone is always going away. I hate that. You must stay here for me to come back to.”

John grabs his mug again and hides behind it, taking another sip.

“John?”

“Yes, Sherlock?”

“What I really would like is to visit Daddy’s grave again? Will you take me there this holiday?”

John nods. “I will be going there tomorrow anyway to see how the hellebores I planted are doing. We’ll go tomorrow morning early so you’ll be back in time for your violin lesson.”

***

The buzzer sounds the moment his finger has pressed the bell. Upstairs Mycroft is standing in the open doorway. In the half-light of the corridor his face looks grey and overflowing with tiredness and worry, resembling nothing so much as Lestrade’s In-tray after that taxi driver case.

“Thank you for coming so quickly,” he says. Sherlock huffs in response. He’s not here to please Mycroft but because the case is so intriguing. Mycroft should be able to understand that.

Mycroft pivots on his heels and walks into the flat, Sherlock close on his heels, John making up the rear. The living room is almost an exact copy of John Openshaw’s in the picture of general upheaval it presents. Mycroft situates himself against the back of the sofa. 

“Here.” John walks up to him and offers him a paper bag Sherlock knows to be containing a coffee with milk and two croissants. “I reckoned you hadn’t had anything to eat for quite a while,” John explains. Sherlock snorts. He snorted when John placed the order in the café.

“Oh. Thank you, John. That is most considerate of you.” Mycroft looks pleasantly surprised, touched almost. He accepts the bag with a hand that doesn’t droop overly much and eyes it with just a faint hint of disapproval.

“I told him you are on a diet as usual but he wouldn’t listen,” Sherlock scathes. “Now, fill me in on the details considering this one.”

“There isn’t much to tell I’m afraid,” Mycroft murmurs while looking around him for a suitable resting place for his refreshments. In the end he just places the bag on the armrest of the sofa. “Christopher Campion. A close colleague of Openshaw. Bit brighter though. Educated at Cambridge but still managed to get himself into the civil service. Very promising young man.” He pauses.

“I gather you haven’t found anything useful at Openshaw’s flat or you would have contacted me,” he continues stiffly. “The scene does appear to be remarkably similar. Rather depressing. I’ve already had somebody make you a copy of the contents of the young man’s computer.” 

Mycroft’s fingers are pushed into the inner pocket of his jacket and appear again with a little plastic model of Big Ben. Sherlock holds out the flat of his hand to receive it. Behind him John is attempting – and failing – to stifle a guffaw. Mycroft eyes John disapprovingly. “I’ve been informed these are quite sought after,” he informs them. “Collector’s items in fact.”

Mycroft pivots on his heels and whisks up his umbrella and his overcoat from a chair at the dining table.

“I’ll leave you to it. I do hope the apparent correspondence of the scene will lead to some inference on your part.”

He makes to walk past the two of them but stops when he’s standing next to Sherlock and clasps his upper arm in a tight grip. “I beseech you, Sherlock, give these cases your utmost. I need you to ascertain as quickly as possible why these men were murdered and what their killers were looking for. The Nation could be at risk. Besides, if our personnel keeps being done in at this rate we soon won’t have anyone left to run the country.”

Mycroft gives Sherlock’s arm a last squeeze and lets his hand drop. “Morning, John,” he mumbles. “Thank you for the coffee once again. So thoughtful.”

They both stand still until they hear the front door close. John walks over to the armrest of the sofa and eyes the bag with the coffee and the croissants. “You know,” he says, “that brother of yours? He’s as much of an asshole as you are. I wouldn’t have deemed it possible. But he is.”

***


	7. Homo Homini Lupus est, chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He loosens his hand from Sherlock’s grasp. The separation feels like a punishment for Sherlock’s words. Maybe that’s Mycroft’s intent. Now he is looking at Sherlock closely, his expression one of careful neutrality. Neither of them has moved an inch, but Sherlock shivers at the distance Mycroft has managed to create between the two of them. He wants to cry out and fling his arms wide and around his brother’s form, around this icy stiffened figure that he knows like no one else does, who knows _him_ like no one else.

“Sherlock, what …”

“Sssh,” he hushes John, holding out his hand to silence him. He adjusts his stance on the chair he’s perched himself upon. The new vantage point hasn’t revealed anything to him yet but he wills his eyes to look, to _see_ because Christopher Campion’s back appears to speak to him, in muffled tones, undistinguishable as yet but if he observes hard enough he’s certain to detect their meaning.

Christopher Campion’s body, in death, is remarkably similar to John Openshaw’s. John has established the approximate hour of death, about five hours ago, maybe six, and helped Sherlock to turn the body with the aid of a sheet. Then he went to drink Mycroft’s coffee and help himself to one of the croissants, leaving Sherlock behind to contemplate the spectacle of Campion’s tortured back.

Sherlock has been standing beside the bed, next he balanced himself on his knees on a pillowcase he found in a cupboard, on the bed and now he’s hovering on this chair over the bed, to study the bloody markings left on the skin of the unfortunate government official. The man has been thrashed relentlessly with a short leather whip with a tied knot at the end. He’s been given more lashes than our lord Jesus Christ. Beneath the crisscrossing of interlocking lesions other wounds can be seen, same as on John Openshaw’s back. Judging by the incisions and the cut into the skin he has concluded they must be the result of knife work. So, before the whipping, they’ve both been tortured with a knife, nipping away at their epidermis with deliberate delicacy, almost lovingly, ever so lightly. Causing them to grind their teeth with the hurt and shock, inducing a little whimper maybe, ghosting over their skin, making it ripple. Never causing them to cry out, however, and plead and beg for relief, for their tormentors to stop, to please, please stop, nothing like the entreaty the lashing must have brought forth.

The remaining question however, is why? Why does the knife work, or what is left of it, bear evidence of such careful artistry? Almost like it’s a pattern, a considered conveying of a message. A warning. Like those pips. Except, that’s not the logical thing to do. Why carve a message into the skin of a man’s back, only to render it invisible again by a thorough mashing of the flesh with a knotted whip? That’s madness.

Yet the idea of the message appeals to him and that’s why he’s stalling on the seat of a chair now, in the hope the change of perspective will set his mind spinning, give him a hint at least, an indication. The thought of leaving this flat in the same state of dejection he was feeling when he pulled shut the front door of John Openshaw’s flat is too distressing.

“Sherlock, I insist you step down from that chair this minute. You’ve been on your feet all night, the last time I saw you eat or drink anything was roughly twenty-two hours ago. I don’t want you to topple over backwards from dizziness and break your neck. You’re staring down at that poor man as if his back is the Rosetta stone or … or … I don’t know, an old text in Sanskrit or something. Get off that chair now! I’m your doctor and I order you to do so.”

Sherlock is about to snarl at John to sod off and go make himself useful in searching the flat for anything, anything unusual when John’s words spring to life suddenly, their implication highlighted as distinctly as if someone had flicked a light switch. He claps his hands together in exaltation.

“Oh!” he exclaims, “Oh!”

Sherlock jumps down from the chair to grab John by the shoulders and waltz him around the space between the bed and the dresser.

“What?” John asks. “What?”

He looks confused but happy. He realises his scolding has set the cogs in Sherlock’s brain in motion. Even though he doesn’t understand exactly how, or why.

“Whatever would I do without you, John?” Sherlock breathes. “There is indeed a message there, in the boy’s skin. Not in Sanskrit but thanks to you I recognise the writing now, it’s in Hindi. They carved some words in Hindi on the backs of those men. Not for others to find, like those pips, those are just a distraction intended for us to jump to the wrong conclusion. No, if they wanted us to have read their message those poor sods would have been arranged on their fronts and been spared a whipping. They wanted to drive the message home to those unlucky bastards, so to speak. They couldn’t have come any closer. Oh my, a clue at last, not much of a clue, but a real intimation at least, a scent of the trail. I love this. They thought they were clever and they were but they should have been more careful, not flaunt the evidence about so. Give me your phone, John.”

It’s taken him about forty-five seconds to say all this, he’s that excited. John fumbles for his phone in his trouser pocket and hands it over. “Writing?” he asks. “Hindi? Do you speak Hindi? Can you read it?”

“Not yet,” Sherlock answers absentmindedly. He’s busy taking photographs of that fascinating back. “I’ll have to ask Mycroft to let me have a look at the other one again. I took some pictures of course, but I don’t know whether they will be clear enough to compare them. India! What’s the connection? Lots of gangs in India, whole family clans that have been making a business out of crime for centuries. Theft, extortion, murder, human trafficking. And here we find two of Mycroft’s model minions murdered with a message in Hindi carved into their backs. When I think of Mycroft’s face … Oh, I love this.”

***

The next few days a heavy rain prevents Sherlock and John from visiting Daddy’s grave. Once it’s dry again, John finds a great part of the wall near the wood has collapsed. He’s adamant the repairs should be done immediately, scolding himself for being a lazy good-for-nothing because he knew that part of the wall was weak and he should have taken his trowel to it during the summer.

***

Sherlock is standing in the blue garden, looking up at the high windows of Mummy’s study. He’s wearing the new cardigan Nanny knitted for him – the bright red colour is as hideous as he feared it would be when she wrote to him she was busy knitting the monstrosity. The cardigan has been hidden for now by his coat so he doesn’t feel the cold even though a sudden frost has transformed the blue garden into the white garden overnight. 

Behind the windows Mummy is at work. Her appearance is very much as Sherlock remembers it to have always been. A cashmere twinset in a dusky dark blue with a double string of pearls around her slim neck, a pleated skirt with a faint floral pattern, her feet in high heels. Her hair is piled high on top of her head in an elaborate coil. It looks less grey - Sherlock supposes that’s the effect of the hair spray.

Mummy walks between the desk and her bookcases to collect the works she’ll need for reference, or for checking facts. Once she has assembled a huge pile on her desk she sits down and pulls her typewriter towards her. Daddy never used a typewriter. He said he had people to do his typing and he hated the noise but Mummy always stated she could think better when she typed. She chugs away at the machine at great speed, using all her fingers, stopping every now and then to reread what she’s done so far.

The whole scene looks cosily familiar, reminding Sherlock of times past. He would be playing in the garden and look up at the house to see Mummy seated at her desk, compiling new insights on ancient history. In the room next to hers Daddy would be sitting at his desk as well, writing, or telephoning or speaking into his Dictaphone. Sometimes he would look up and notice Sherlock. Then he would smile and wink at Sherlock but Mummy never did. Her eyes were resting on her work, always.

As they do now. The picture she presents is perfect. The dedicated historian at work. 

Sherlock walks over to the bench in front of the delphiniums (the ground looks barren and empty now). What if she is actually at work in her study, if she is really writing a study on – what was it? Oh yes, the decline of the Roman republic. Not nonsense, but a genuine study like the ones she’s been so heartily applauded for in the past. 

The thought frightens him. Because that would imply she’s sane, of sound mind, except when she sees him. Sherlock doesn’t know whether he’s prepared to accept that. In doing so he would admit he’s the one inspiring these bouts of overt madness, damning him with the responsibility for Mummy’s fits of lunacy.

They haven’t seen much of each other so far. She takes her meals on a tray in her room. Sherlock has seen the trays returned to the kitchen with the plate half empty and the quart of wine nearly finished so she appears to be eating. She has joined Mycroft and him for tea twice but it was obvious she was only participating at Mycroft’s behest. She said good day to Sherlock and expressed the wish he was enjoying his holiday and engaged in a talk with Mycroft next, refusing to look at Sherlock. Mycroft made several attempts to include Sherlock in their discussion, referring to him or asking him a question, but Mummy cut short these efforts with a decided hauling in of the conversational anchor, leaving Sherlock stranded on a desolate island of loneliness. 

Still, that place was far preferable to the tight spot he found himself in two days ago when he chanced upon her in the yellow drawing room and she, the impeccable lady of the house, fell on her knees before him and clasped him in her arms, caressing his face, and drawing her hands through his curls. She’d called him her darling again, asked him why he had to leave her, told him how glad she was he had come back at last. Sherlock had stood rigid, hardly daring to breathe, enduring her attentions which weren’t meant for him, desperately hoping for her to regain her senses or someone to enter the room to rescue him. Finally, after what had felt like ages, Nanny had walked into the room and managed to persuade Mummy to let go and return to her own room to rest some.

Afterwards, Nanny had checked on Sherlock and found him in the windowsill in his own room, staring outside at the never-ending rain. 

“She’s never going to be better,” he said when Nanny seated herself beside him. She hugged him tight and kissed him on his forehead.

“She will,” Nanny told him. “She has to. She can’t rely on Mycroft forever. He’s too young to carry so much responsibility. She does realise that, she’s simply not ready yet. She loved your father dearly, Sherlock. Grief is a terrible thing, but please, you must believe me, she _is_ better, Sherlock. She was bedridden when you left for school and look at her now.” Another comforting hug around his shoulders. “Still, we can’t expect miracles. Mummy is bound to have a relapse every now and again. The doctor is with her now. He told me there’s nothing to worry about.”

Sherlock remained quiet. He hadn’t even really listened to Nanny’s soothing prattle. 

All he can think is Mummy is mad, mad as a March hare.

***

“Thank you. I’m most obliged to you. My family won’t forget what you’ve done to help us. — Yes certainly. — You’re very welcome. — Definitely. — Thank you once more. Goodbye.”

Something about Mycroft’s tone of voice has kept Sherlock from entering Daddy’s study. A suave genialness, forced and unnatural to Sherlock’s ears, but no doubt utterly convincing to the person on the other end of the line. Sherlock puts his ear a little closer against the keyhole. Mycroft is opening and closing drawers. Sherlock hears him shutting the heavy door of the file cabinet. For a long time that’s the last sound to have entered his ears. He’s about to tiptoe away when Mycroft’s voice stops him.

“Good morning, Miss. Mycroft Holmes speaking. — Yes, fine, thank you. — Good morning. — We’ve received your report, yes. As you’ve guessed correctly that’s the reason I’m contacting you. — No, well. You can imagine we are highly displeased with your continuing lack of progress. My mother and I both feel you aren’t giving the investigation the attention it certainly warrants. — What do you mean …”

Listening to Mycroft Sherlock is transported back to the day he stood listening at this same door to Daddy’s voice. Mycroft’s is filled with the same tightly controlled anger and exasperation Sherlock detected in Daddy’s voice that day, the smooth baritone roughened by the struggle to remain calm. Sherlock remembers Daddy sitting behind the desk with his hands before his eyes, the television showing panicked and bloodied people. Now Sherlock understands there had been a big bomb explosion in London that day and Daddy had been angry because he had warned against it but he hadn’t been listened to. 

Then the people that had planted the first bomb decided to blow Daddy to pieces as well.

Mycroft’s voice is less pleasant to the ear than Daddy’s. It’s risen half an octave at least during the five minutes the conversation has lasted so far. Sherlock knocks on the door and enters briskly, as if he just came walking up to Daddy’s study and hasn’t spent the last quarter of an hour eavesdropping on his brother.

Mycroft smiles at him. He’s seated behind Daddy’s desk, the receiver at his right ear. His left hand is toying with the papers of the thick file lying in front of him. It’s a shock to see Mycroft seated there, in Daddy’s place, as if he belongs there. Sherlock blinks to dispel the image but when he opens his eyes again Mycroft is still perched in Daddy’s chair.

“Yes, of course I do understand,” Mycroft says into the receiver in impatient tones. “I do wonder though whether _you_ understand _our_ request. You will have to admit our question isn’t that difficult, not for an organisation of your calibre. Besides, solving this crime is about more than just pleasing one family. — I wouldn’t be a very good son if I weren’t anxious, now would I? — Yes, you may certainly say that again. — Thank you, I do look forward to your next report. May I express the wish it will contain information of a more definitive nature? — Yes, thank you. I will most certainly do so. Please be so good as to give my kind regards to Sir Percival, and those of my mother as well of course. Goodbye.”

Mycroft throws the receiver onto the cradle while crinkling his nose with disgust.

“Despicable idiots,” he mutters and sniffs.

Sherlock walks up to Mycroft and takes his brother’s hand in his.

“They will never catch them, Mycroft,” he says. “The people who killed Daddy are too smart.”

Mycroft lets Sherlock hold his hand. His eyes are focused on the papers of the file as if they’re holding the code word to the enigma he’s trying to solve, if only he could find out what he’s looking for. However, if he wills himself to look at those papers hard enough and long enough one day the mystery will be revealed to him and he will finally grasp the message hidden amongst all the swathes of useless red tape.

“How singular, Sherlock,” Mycroft begins at last. “You’ve been complaining in almost every letter you’ve written me since you started attending school about the stupidity of the people you encountered, be they boys or masters. Yet here you state a couple of peons, descendants of a race we’ve subjugated and dominated for centuries, would be able to outsmart us. I’m afraid I find that rather hard to believe.”

He loosens his hand from Sherlock’s grasp. The separation feels like a punishment for Sherlock’s words. Maybe that’s Mycroft’s intent. Now he is looking at Sherlock closely, his expression one of careful neutrality. Neither of them has moved an inch, but Sherlock shivers at the distance Mycroft has managed to create between the two of them. He wants to cry out and fling his arms wide and around his brother’s form, around this icy stiffened figure that he knows like no one else does, who knows _him_ like no one else.

Instead, he says: “Maybe those men in the grey suits don’t want us to know who murdered Daddy.”

The corners of Mycroft’s mouth quirk in a grimace. He grabs Sherlock’s upper arm to pull him nearer, into the embrace Sherlock craved just a second ago, warm and admiring.

“Exactly, brother mine,” he praises. “That’s my estimation as well. Not the men that came to visit us, they’re nothing but some ministry minions, but people serving our country on a more exalted level. I’m not saying they’re actively obstructing the investigation, that would be going too far, but they’re most certainly not very interested in furthering our cause. Why is that, I wonder?”

Sherlock raises his shoulders. The expectant look on Mycroft’s face starts to irritate him. How is he to know why people aren’t willing to help Mummy and Mycroft. Why is it important? What will finding out who killed Daddy bring them? Daddy can’t be made alive again, now can he? Oh, if only that would be possible.

A finger is laid against Mycroft’s mouth before it travels upward to scratch at his nose. 

“Daddy never spoke to me about having enemies,” continues Mycroft, “nor to Mr Talbot either, I’ve asked. As he never mentioned them, I assumed Daddy didn’t have them, but now I know different. Behind his exterior of vivacious bonhomie Daddy was hard as nails.”

Sherlock flicks his eyes up to Mycroft to check whether he’s heard correctly. Mycroft goes on, oblivious: “I’ve come to understand that only recently. I’ve been reading his notes, they’re rather frightening. Like they were written by someone else. He didn’t have much faith in people in general apparently. His daily reality was one of war, constantly. He only managed to survive for so long because he was more intelligent than the rest of them. He was the king and he was done in by the barons. They must have hated him.”

Bad word, any bad word will do. Sherlock is not going to listen to this. To this … this denouncement of Daddy, of his Daddy. Why is Mycroft telling him this? Sherlock wriggles to loosen himself from Mycroft’s hold on him, he refuses to hear one more word. Once free he makes for the door.

“What is it? Sherlock?” Mycroft calls. 

Sherlock doesn’t answer. He runs through the door and into the corridor, through the hall next and then he’s outside. The safety of the tree house beckons him. Mycroft follows him and stands beneath the house pleading for Sherlock to come down but Sherlock puts his hands against his ears. He sits rocking on his heels till Mycroft gives up and walks back to the house. Sherlock looks after him till he disappears behind the shrubs. Dusk is descending on the garden by the time he climbs down and steals back to the house.

***

“Right, nothing more we can do here. Time to be off.”

Sherlock is on his way to the entrance hall when his phone rings. A smile curls the corners of his lips as he looks at the screen. “That will be victim number three,” he announces. “Mycroft?”

His brother bids him in rather stressed tones to hurry themselves to a Notting Hill address.

“Another collector’s item?” he asks. “We’ve already got Big Ben. Do we get Nelson’s column now?” Behind him he hears John’s high giggle.

“I must say your sense of humour eludes me,” Mycroft declares in his most frigid tones and rings off.

Outside the day is bright and sunny. The first taxi Sherlock hails stops straightaway. Life is fine, just fine.

***

All that remains of the fox are some fragments of bone and dried-out and desiccated skin with some dull hairs attached. They lie spread out on the lid of the casket and Sherlock sits on his heels considering them. His joy in the experiment is gone. It has taught him all the horror stories about corpses wriggling with crawling maggots aren’t true, which is a relief, however small. Daddy didn’t serve as food for the worms, Daddy just … dissolved into dust and nothingness. But what is Sherlock to do now? The experiment is completed. Interring the remains again feels like a sacrilege, a sacrilege to the memory of his Daddy.

Behind his back a twig snaps with a loud crack. Sherlock whirls around so fast the motion nearly sends him toppling over.

“Sherlock,” Mummy says. “What are _you_ doing here?” Her voice brims with genuine amazement at finding him in this spot. She remains pausing where she stepped on the twig, the broken sides poking up beside her left foot, which is sheathed with a Wellington boot.

“Nothing, Mummy,” Sherlock tells her, hoping the answer will drive her away. Whatever is she doing here, this far from the ordered gardens around the house? As far as he knows she never strays this far into the grounds of the estate. The farthest she’s ever gone is to the lake.

“Nothing,” Mummy repeats and edges closer. “What’s that hole for then, Sherlock. That doesn’t look like nothing to me, now does it? Or well, it does actually … “ Her voice trails off and she stands next to the grave, staring down into it.

“What is this?” Her face expresses nothing but wonder, until her glance travels over towards the coffin and the lid with its grisly collection. Her eyes widen. “Tell me,” she urges. “I order you to explain to me what mischief you’re up to now.”

“It’s nothing, Mummy. Really,” Sherlock stammers. “It’s nothing but an experiment …”

“An experiment? An experiment in what? This looks more like a tableau straight out of a story by Edgar Allen Poe to me. What _are_ you doing here, for heaven’s sake? Answer me. Now!”

While talking she’s moved closer to him and Sherlock cowers backwards, away from her. 

“I … , I … It’s nothing, Mummy. You must believe me. It’s just. I wanted to find out what’s happening to Daddy, what’s left of Daddy. So I blew up this fox I found in the woods and buried him. To imitate what had happened to Daddy. I hoped …”

“Stop it,” his mother shouts. She’s staring down at him as if he’s a reincarnation of Beelzebub himself. “Stop it, I say. My God, what are you? You can’t be a child of mine, you must be a changeling ... a … a witch …You can’t be real.” All the colour has drained from her face. Her throat is working furiously, her hands fluttering towards it in a desperate attempt to quiet its convulsions.

“Oh God, oh my God. How is it possible you look so much like him, he who was Apollo himself incarnate?” She puts a hand in front of her mouth as if she’s forcing herself not to throw up. “How can a mere child think up anything that’s so thoroughly wicked and depraved?” she goes on. “Oh God, what did I do wrong to deserve this? You utterly fiendish, atrocious, evil little demon from hell!”

She screeches out the last words while raising her hand. Sherlock brings up his arms to ward off the slap. Her hand stays hovering in the air above him. Mummy’s lungs are straining frantically, she stands panting with her mouth open, her lips wet with saliva. They’ve locked their eyes and Sherlock is forcing himself not to slant his gaze away from hers.

“Oh, oh, oh,” Mummy gasps. “You … you … “ A sudden movement drops her hand to her side, as if an invisible giant has broken her arm. Her mouth remains working involuntarily while her hands trail from her side up to her face and back again to end up wringing themselves in front of her. Sherlock remains petrified, wishing for her instant departure. Or for some merciful deity to reach down and transform her into a laurel bush so she can stand and mourn her Apollo till hell freezes over. He knows he isn’t wicked, just curious. If anyone is wicked, it’s her. Wicked because she’s not truly interested in him, wicked because she’s always ready to assume the worst about him.

_Go away, go away, go away, go away, go away …_

His enchantment works. Just as sudden as she materialised behind his back she pivots on her heels and vanishes, her coat a flash of colour disappearing between the trees. 

No doubt she’s going to complain to Nanny, and to Mycroft and to anyone else who might be willing to lend her an ear about her suffering under the terrible curse of her youngest son, who sadly reminds her so much of her beloved, wonderful Sherlock in his looks. A wave of nausea hits him. He sits on his knees with his hands pressed against his stomach but the queasy feeling doesn’t want to be fought down. A gulf of bitter and sour bile rises in his throat and forces itself out of his mouth, his breakfast ending up all over the remnants of the fox. Wave upon wave travels upwards and splatters onto the ground until he feels completely dizzy and sits panting with the effort to pack himself together again. He wipes his hand on his mouth. Then he stands and walks away, not looking back once.

***

An appalling odour of putrefaction hits their noses the moment Mycroft opens the door to the flat. His brother’s face is half-hidden behind a white cambric handkerchief. Conspicuously standing out on the fabric are his initials, embroidered in a dove grey silk. Sherlock intercepts his flatmate’s look towards the article of humble personal hygiene and covers his smile by a fake cough. John says nothing. He fumbles in the pocket of his black jacket to bring out a big red handkerchief in a colour so bright you could use it to regulate the traffic on Piccadilly Circus.

“Morning, Mycroft,” he greets and covers his nose and mouth. Behind his handkerchief Mycroft’s deep sigh can be heard. Sherlock ignores this.

“Where’s the bedroom?” he asks. “Though I could just follow my nose, I suppose.”

“Allow me.” As ever, Mycroft is the perfect host. The three of them file to the last door in the hall. The smell becomes a tangible presence once Mycroft opens it and they enter the room. Sherlock waves his hand in front of his nose. 

“Richard Collins was on sick leave,” Mycroft explains. “So he wasn’t missed at the office.”

“He certainly doesn’t look too well,” Sherlock agrees. “He won’t make a recovery soon. I say, Mycroft, I’d never realised we were still that interested in India. That is, except for the cricket, of course.”

“India?”

“Yes, India.”

Sherlock walks over to the corpse, pulling on another pair of latex gloves out of his coat pocket. Five orange pips artfully arranged on the blotched skin covering the forehead. He snorts, picks them up and arranges them on the night stand. With a tentative finger he prods the man’s shoulder next.

“I’m not going to turn him over here,” he announces. “He’s too far gone. Better have him removed to Bart’s. I can check his back over there.”

“His back,” Mycroft echoes. It’s obvious he’s constraining himself not to ask what exactly Sherlock may be implying with his words. His temporary position of advantage on Mycroft feels deliciously luxurious so he is thoroughly determined to wallow in it for as long as Mycroft will allow him.

“Those pips are nothing but a foil.” He waves his hand dismissively in the general direction of the bed. “One of our perpetrators must be rather fond of old-fashioned detective stories. India is what connects these men, Mycroft. Isn’t that so?”

Mycroft purses his mouth. “Not John Openshaw,” he states. “Definitely not. Although I must confess he and Campion were thick as thieves lately, a bit too much so to my liking. Sadly their behaviour was such I had to have a little chat with both of them only last week …” His voice trails off. The umbrella is twirled with a flourish, a sure indication of unease. “India. Are you quite sure, Sherlock?”

Sherlock nods.

“Fine.” Mycroft fumbles in the pocket of his overcoat and brings out his phone and another Big Ben. John looks slightly disappointed as he accepts the memory stick.

“Pray do excuse me.” Mycroft walks out of the room holding the phone to his ear. His carefully constructing voice floats back to them out of the hall.

“You might have hit upon something large,” John remarks.

“Oh, I don’t know about that. Something smelly, that’s for certain.”

The casual rejoinder earns him a hiccupping chortle from behind the red handkerchief. 

“If we remain standing here any longer we’ll end up reeking like a corpse ourselves,” John forwards next. He makes for the door.

“Good thinking, John.” Sherlock closes the door behind him. In the hall Mycroft is just ending his call. 

“All our employees who have been even remotely attached to anything having to do with the Indian government, diplomatic service or our business interests over there are being forewarned at this moment,” he says. “I trust you in this, Sherlock. Please do show yourself worthy of my faith. We don’t want your deplorable insistence on secrecy and open adversity towards my person to breech too big a hole in the annual budget. At least, I do assume even you will admit it would be unfair to burden the average British taxpayer with your expounding upon our familial differences.”

A faint smile fleets over his features. Speechless, Sherlock curls his hands into fists. He blinks his eyelids rapidly several times to calm himself.

“Good day, John. Sherlock,” Mycroft takes his leave, turns on his heels and makes for the front door. “I will send someone over to take care of the body,” he calls back over his shoulder. “It will be at your disposal at Bart’s in an hour.”

The front door falls shut behind his bespoke back. John turns towards Sherlock.

“I think I’m getting the hang of this whole archenemy business now,” he says. 

Out of the red mist that has filled Sherlock’s head he looks down upon his flatmate. “Come on,” John nudges his side. “Home now. We’ll have Mrs Hudson feed us up and then you can start on your Hindi crash course courtesy of the British government.”

***

“Mycroft?”

No answer. Sherlock knocks again and repeats Mycroft’s name, a little louder this time.

Still no response.

“Mycroft, are you there?” He tries the door handle and finds the door is locked. How odd. He puts his ear against the wood of the door. Now he can hear Mycroft is in the room, just like Sherlock supposed he would be. Mycroft is breathing quite heavily, grunting almost.

“Mycroft, are you all right in there?” Sherlock rattles the door handle several times. Why doesn’t his brother open the door?

“What is it?” Mycroft’s voice comes at last, sounding strained and off-key. “What do you want?”

Sherlock doesn’t want anything, really. Just some comfort after the dreadful encounter with Mummy. John is still repairing that stupid wall, Nanny is with Mummy in her bedroom and Cook is lording it over the Aga in a cloud of steam and strong spicy smells. So Sherlock has ended up searching for Mycroft through all the rooms of the house. Only to find him behind a barred door.

“Open up, Mycroft,” he calls.

Mycroft’s answer is a muffled curse. “Hang on a minute, would you,” he says next. 

Sherlock waits. From the other side of the door the sound of a heavy thump reaches him. The door remains closed.

“Mycroft?”

“Yes! I’m coming. Do you have to be so impatient?”

Suddenly the door is yanked open with such an unexpected force Sherlock nearly tumbles into the room. Mycroft stands holding the door handle glaring down on him. The skin of his face is blotched and his hair is a tousled mess. His shirt tails are hanging over the waistband of his trousers as if he hasn’t finished dressing yet, even though it’s nearly eleven thirty. Sherlock gapes up at his brother.

“Are you all right, Mycroft?” 

“Yes, yes,” Mycroft replies hastily. “Now what is it?”

“I … I … “ Sherlock drifts over towards Mycroft’s bed. The coverlet is in a state of disarray that’s quite unusual for Mycroft. Sherlock sniffs, there is a pungent whiff of something he can’t define in the air. He pulls the bedspread a little straighter and plunks himself down on the bed.

“I was at the graveside and Mummy found me. She said I was a wicked little demon. I had to throw up.”

“Oh God.” Mycroft draws his hand over his face. “Oh, no.” He hurries over towards Sherlock and falls down on his knees in front of him, putting his hands on Sherlock’s thighs. An anxious squeeze. “Please, tell me she didn’t hurt you.” 

“No. I think she wanted to slap me but she thought better of it. She ran away.”

“Christ.” Mycroft raises himself and drops down on the bed next to Sherlock. “What an unlucky coincidence. Well, I do hope the experience has put an end to your experiment at least.”

“Yes. I vomited all over it so it’s all spoiled. Besides, there wasn’t much left.”

“I see,” Mycroft says. He throws an arm around Sherlock’s shoulder. The strange scent becomes even more persistent.

“Mycroft?”

“Yes.”

“Are you ill? You smell funny. And you look strange, like you’re running a fever.”

The arm falls down and is pulled inward.

“No,” Mycroft tells him. “Nothing is wrong with me. I was just enjoying a little piece and quiet. It appears however that is too much to ask for in this household. I’m sorry, Sherlock, but would you mind going away now. I’ll talk to Mummy later, all right?”

Sherlock stands. “What’s this,” he says and extends his hand in the direction of a piece of paper that’s sticking out from beneath the mattress. Mycroft snatches at his hand and starts pulling him into the direction of the door.

“Out, Sherlock. Now, please.”

Sherlock is shoved into the corridor and the door is thrown shut into his face. He can hear Mycroft stomping off into the direction of the bed. He remains looking at the door.

“Go away, Sherlock.”

“All right, Mycroft.”

He goes for the safety of his own room. Whatever is wrong with Mycroft? Is Mummy’s condition contagious? Or hereditary? (Mr Fallon made him read an article on experiments with peas and fruit flies shortly before the holiday). He falls onto his own bed and clasps his hands around his pillow. Oh no, Mycroft insane as well. That would … He daren’t contemplate that possibility. He screws his eyes shut against the thought. Please no, please, please, please.

*** 

“What’s wrong with you, Sherlock? You aren’t concentrating properly at all. This piece should be of no difficulty, not for you.” Mr Mancini looks dissatisfied in the extreme.

Sherlock lets the instrument and his bow drop to his sides.

“I’m sorry, Mr Mancini,” he says. “I truly am. It’s just, I had such an awful morning.”

“Oh dear.” Mr Mancini sits down abruptly on the bulky sofa and motions for Sherlock to do the same. “What has that outrageous insult to womanhood done this time then? Did you talk to Mycroft?”

Sherlock lays his violin and the bow on the table before seating himself next to the old man. 

“I … eerrm … Mycroft was the one acting strange,” he blurts out and proceeds retelling his unusual encounter that morning with the person he loves more than anyone else in the world – except for Daddy, obviously.

His violin teacher sits listening attentively, a glint lighting up in his eye as the story unfolds. He coughs discreetly behind one hand when Sherlock has reached the end and pats Sherlock a few times on the knee with the other hand.

“What age is Mycroft now? Nearing sixteen, isn’t he? He always manages to exude the impression he’s so much older. I’m glad to hear he _is_ actually no different than other boys his age,” forwards Mr Mancini. “There is nothing wrong with Mycroft, Sherlock. Nothing to worry about. All you need to do is allow him some privacy. The older people are, the more time for themselves they need.” 

“I don’t understand.”

Mr Mancini chuckles. “You will once you reach Mycroft’s age. Trust me, Sherlock. I’m convinced Mycroft will be his usual self again once you return home.” He sits up and eyes Sherlock sternly. “Now, I do hope your confession has lifted a weight from your mind and you’ll be able to give Reger’s lovely little piece the attention it deserves. Better start at the beginning again, and I don’t want to hear any mistakes this time.”

*** 

“I want to apologise for my behaviour this morning, Sherlock.”

“Oh, there’s no need, Mycroft. I understand completely. Mr Mancini told me I shouldn’t make too many demands on your time. He said he was happy to hear you are no different from other boys your age.”

Mycroft winces. “Did he now,” he mutters. “So good to hear him say so.” 

If Mycroft considers that to be the case, than why does he look so pained? Paying heed to Mr Mancini’s advice, Sherlock refrains from asking. 

Still, it’s all rather weird.

*** 

“Are you warm enough, Sherlock?”

“Yes, John.”

He shoves his hands even deeper into the pockets of John’s jacket. Beneath his hands he can feel the muscles of John’s thighs working frantically, pushing down the pedals with great energy, generating the heat in his body that seeps through the flannel of his pocket lining and the wool coating Sherlock’s hands to warm Sherlock’s fingers that are numb with the cold. 

John’s broad back doesn’t shield him entirely from the biting north-easterly that keeps flinging gusty whiffs of fiercely cold air at them out of a sky that’s as grey and dank as a coffin of lead. It feels like the wind is hitting them with a plastic bag filled with ice. Against his violent protests Nanny has insisted he should wear a woollen hat and though he can’t say he’s happy to have the ridiculous atrocity sitting on his head – it is a bright green with red reindeer cavorting along the rim and a huge red pompom on top – he is grateful for the warmth it provides. Sherlock shivers and hides himself even deeper into the cocoon of his coat and scarf. He blinks rapidly to disperse the tears that are whipped up by the stinging chill.

“We’re nearly there,” John shouts. He sticks out his left arm and they turn the corner and when Sherlock looks past John’s arm he sees the spire of the village church rise in front of them. Five more minutes and John stops the bike in front of the wall surrounding the church and the small cemetery plot. Sherlock hops off the carrier with legs that are stiff from the iciness. John looks down on him with unease.

“We shouldn’t have come.”

“Nonsense, John,” he scoffs, wiping at his face with a gloved hand. 

John laughs. “Impertinent little blighter,” he scolds but he holds out his hand, inviting Sherlock to seize it. “Come on, then. No use dillydallying here.”

Suddenly he’s afraid. The last time he was here was during the summer. The cemetery had been an almost cosy spot then, the grass a verdant and warm carpet on the ground, the sun lighting up the lichen on the gravestones and the slate tiles of the church roofing. Now, with the icy wind tearing at their clothes and slashing their faces the place looks like a barren and drab grey wasteland and he hates the idea of Daddy lying here all by himself.

_But he can’t feel it. He’s dead, remember? Nothing but dust now._

“What is it, Sherlock?” John tugs at his arm.

Sherlock braces himself. “I don’t want to go. I want to go home.”

John halts and slants his gaze at him. “Oh,” he says and Sherlock recognises the disappointment in John’s voice. “But I thought … back home you said you wanted to come.”

Sherlock bobs his head in confirmation. “Yes, I did. I know. Except now I find I don’t want to.”

“All right,” John drags the word up from some place deep in his chest. “Can you explain why you’re having second thoughts all of a sudden? Must be a reason, I suppose.” His hand squeezes Sherlock’s, an injunction to unburden himself. “Only if you want to, of course,” he hastens to add.

“I hate it here. It’s cold and empty and the trees are bare and … I just want to go,” he ends miserably.

“I see. I understand,” John looks around, appraising the scene. “It does look a bit … stark? Is that the right word? Though it does have its beauty as well. Are you afraid your Daddy’s grave will be as barren as those we can see from here? It won’t be, I promise you. I told you about the hellebores I planted, didn’t I? Just come have a look, Sherlock. Please?”

His eyes fleet imploringly over Sherlock’s face. “We’ve already come this far,” he continues. “Just let us have a quick look.”

Sherlock sighs. “If we must.” He reaches out with his hand to open the gate and hurries into the small cemetery. Pots of wilted and frost-bitten flowers lean pathetically against the gravestones, an accurate picture of death. The wind tugs and tears at his clothes, whipping him, but he fights against the fiery freezing gusts that make his eyes water. 

Sherlock marches past the headstones in the direction of the corner where Daddy lies, his head bowed and eyes fixed firmly on the ground. Behind him he hears John’s panting breath.

Nearing the spot where Daddy is interred a flash of bright white and dark purple leaps up from the earth into the corner of Sherlock’s eyes. He raises his head for a proper look and takes the last step before falling down on his knees beside the headstone.

“Oh, how marvellous,” he cries. “Oh John, how wonderful!”

He wrings the gloves from his hands to touch the bells that wiggle and bob gracefully in the wind above their nest of dark-green leaves. Their elegant sway in these bleak surroundings is a miracle, a testimony to everlasting life. Sherlock runs his fingers over the tender texture of the flowers, taking care not to crush them. His fingers are turning red and growing numb with the cold, the icy frostiness of the earth creeps up through the fabric of his trousers but he is oblivious, gazing at the wonder of flowery abundance over Daddy’s grave.

Lowering himself carefully John kneels down next to him.

“It’s wonderful, John,” Sherlock breathes, managing to unlock his eyes for a moment to gaze up at the man beside him.

A huge grin lightens John’s face. “I know, Sherlock. Look …” His finger points at a small green shoot struggling out of the frozen earth. “The first snowdrop, the messenger of spring. Another month and they will be gracing this spot. And then just two more weeks and your Daddy’s grave will be a sea of purple crocuses. Daffodils and blue muscari after that … “

His hands are busy collecting some dry leaves from between the flowers. “You didn’t think I would let your Daddy lie here without lots of flowers to cover him every day of the year, now did you?”

“No John, no, you wouldn’t. You were his best friend.”

John smiles before turning his head away. “I don’t know about that, Sherlock,” he says. “I think you were, rather. But he was the best man, the most … the best human being that I've ever known and I’d give anything, just anything for him not to be dead.” 


	8. Homo Homini Lupus est, chapter 8.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What a low blow, even considering it’s Mycroft addressing him thus. Sherlock gasps audibly at the shock of hearing the words. John stiffens beside him, balling his hands into fists upon perceiving his surprise. Though the good doctor doesn’t have the faintest, obviously.

He’s eight years old but he doesn’t feel any different from the way he felt during the last day in school before the holiday. Nothing has changed as he enters the dorm room. Edward is sitting on his bed staring out of the window. His shoulders hunch in on themselves upon Sherlock’s entry to slowly unwind and relax again as the realisation dawns upon him he has nothing to fear from the intruder upon his loneliness.

“Hello, Edward,” Sherlock greets his dorm mate. 

Edward turns and throws him a shy smile. “Hello, Sherlock …” He hesitates. “Did you have a nice holiday?”

Sherlock doesn’t see how that’s any of Edward’s business. Surely he doesn’t have to answer the question. He drops his bag onto his bed and walks over towards his locker to start unpacking the suitcase that’s already sitting in front of it.

“I didn’t,” Edward continues. “My Mummy and Daddy have been doing nothing but shouting at each other and last week Mummy told me … she told me …” 

Edward starts to cry – wild violent tears of despair – and Sherlock stands absolutely still, silently begging for Edward to stop because he doesn’t want to be acquainted with Edward’s grief, to become a witness to the feelings of the feeble little boy.

“… Daddy is going away because he likes his secretary better than he likes us. And then later Daddy came and said that isn’t true, he does love me, and Katherine, my sister, but he just doesn’t want to live with Mummy anymore. He wants me to stay with him during the summer together with this stupid woman I don’t want to know. And now I’ll have to remain at this school I hate …”

With his knees drawn up against him he’s let himself fall down onto the mattress, abandoning himself to his misery. Sherlock keeps bringing out his stacks of shirts, and trousers and vests out of the suitcase and stashing them into his locker, refusing to look at Edward.

“I’m sorry for you,” he says. “But you should pull yourself together now. Warburton and Pleasance might come in any moment. If they find you crying like that they will torment you over it during the rest of the term.”

On his bed Edward stills at the words. “Oh,” he says. He sits up and starts wiping his face. “You’re right. Oh god, you’re right. Tell me, does it show?”

“I’d go to the shower room if I were you and splash some cold water onto your face,” Sherlock advises him, still intent on arranging the contents of his locker.

“Thank you. I’ll do that.” Edward sniffs. “Thank you, Sherlock. You’re a true friend.”

No, he isn’t. Not to Edward. Not in this place. He doesn’t have friends.

***

What a glorious conclusion to a thoroughly exhilarating case. He hasn’t yet moved from the spot where he was forced down on his knees in the mud a quarter of an hour ago with the cold muzzle of a gun against his right temple. He’d kept talking to his would-be killer, buying himself the time for John to catch up with them and dash into the dank alley in a flurry of military action to knock out their suspect with a solid board of wood he’d picked out of a nearby skip. 

The spectacular finale proved to be the culmination of five marvellous days packed with solving puzzles, two more corpses, him mastering the basics of Hindi grammar, a massive falling-out with Mycroft and an adrenaline-charged chase through the tunnels of the Tube between Mile End and Bethnal Green. 

Beside him John is panting and laughing, hunched over with his hands on his thighs, asking whether he’s all right.

“Never felt better in my life,” he says, and it is true, and John stares at him a second before bursting into a helpless fit of giggles,

“You know you’re a total wanker, don’t you?” John hiccups and that assessment is so wide of the mark Sherlock can’t help but smile. 

Further down the alley a bemused-looking Lestrade is talking to Mycroft, clearly wondering what to do with this supercilious civilian that has materialised out of thin air at the edge of a crime scene that has sprung up out of nowhere, one he’s just been invited to by a text from John urgently asking him for the Yard’s assistance. Posh superiority is virtually dripping from every cubic inch of Mycroft’s being while he is imprinting upon the good Detective Inspector he is indeed Mycroft Holmes, Sherlock’s brother, and would be most grateful to be allowed to talk to his younger sibling.

Of course Lestrade and Mycroft have never met before. After his betrayal had come to light, Lestrade confessed all the negotiations about Mycroft visiting Sherlock at the clinic were conducted by telephone. Lestrade had gone on to mull over the secretiveness and inaccessibility of the family of the junkie he’d chanced upon during a raid in search of a drug gang, raped and left for dead on a mattress in a squatting house in Blackwall. 

“Just goes to show, doesn’t it?” Sherlock had snapped and turned his back on the man who’d saved him, boring a hole in the sickly mint green of the institution wall with his gaze until he had heard Lestrade sigh, raise himself and leave. He hadn’t turned around to watch his departure and the dejected set to Lestrade’s shoulders.

At the entrance to the alley, lower-middle class gives in to middle-upper class and Lestrade steps aside to allow Mycroft to enter the dank backstreet in one of the less salubrious parts of London, wheedling his umbrella with a faint air of distaste around his mouth. 

He halts just one foot from where Sherlock is sitting, looking down at his younger sibling with a none too benevolent mien, the tip of the umbrella pointing at Sherlock’s legs accusingly. 

“Please raise yourself,” he rasps in a constricted voice. “You know I loathe the idea of you on your knees in a back alley.”

What a low blow, even considering it’s Mycroft addressing him thus. Sherlock gasps audibly at the shock of hearing the words. John stiffens beside him, balling his hands into fists upon perceiving his surprise. Though the good doctor doesn’t have the faintest, obviously.

A densely packed psychological novel writes itself over Mycroft’s features as he watches the impact of his words on his brother. He winces and extends his hand.

“Here, let me help you,” he offers. “My sincere apologies for my remark. It was inconsiderate and frankly unforgivable. I hope you will accept it was the result of thoughtlessness on my part and not ejected with the object to either hurt you or judge your conduct, whether in the present or the past.”

They observe each other with narrowed eyes, Mycroft holding out his hand patiently until Sherlock reaches out and accepts it. With a surprisingly swift movement he is hauled to his feet.

“Thank you,” he says. His trousers are ruined so he doesn’t attempt to dust them. His hand is given an extra squeeze before Mycroft lets go of it.

“Thank _you_. The British government is most grateful to you for your rapid dissolving of these gruesome murders and for leading the proper authorities to the perpetrators. I’ve understood from that capable Detective Inspector the auxiliaries and principals of this unfortunate individual are being taken into custody right now.” Mycroft wrinkles his nose and looks down on the still-prone form of the man John rendered inert with one well-delivered blow. 

“Shouldn’t he be attended to?” he asks vaguely.

“I checked him over,” John says. “He’ll be fine. Except for the massive headache.”

“Ah, that’s good. Thank you, John.” The umbrella switches hands. 

“I would like to add my sincere gratitude for coming to the aid of my dear younger brother in his hour of need,” Mycroft mumbles. He coughs discreetly behind his hand. “I’ll include you in my application for the knighthood.”

Sherlock holds up his hand. “No knighthoods, Mycroft. I don’t want them and neither does John.” He nods into the direction of Lestrade, who’s coming over towards them. “Lestrade might though.”

“What’s that then?” Lestrade asks them. “Are you all right, Sherlock?”

“My brother and I were just discussing rewarding you with a knighthood for turning up belatedly at the crime scene once again, Lestrade.”

The scowl disfiguring Mycroft’s features at his glib quip warms Sherlock’s heart.

“I assure you we were doing no such thing, Detective Inspector. Unlike my brother, who should know better, I fully understand you have to do your work under the most adverse conditions and I wish to compliment you sincerely on the results you manage to achieve against all probabilities.”

Lestrade stands gaping up at Mycroft with a stunned look of incomprehension. His recovery however, is remarkably quick.

“Do you now?” he says. “Well, you’re the man I should approach about our constant lack of funds then, I suppose.”

“Ah,” murmurs Mycroft with lowered lashes, all his attention riveted on the handle of his umbrella.

Next to Sherlock, John explodes into laughter.

“Dream on, Lestrade,” Sherlock tells him. “From personal experience I can inform you my dear brother’s chief accomplishment in budgeting happens to be cutting down, not expanding.”

He looks around their little group. 

“Personally, I’m done here,” he continues. “John and I really want to go now, Lestrade. I’m desperate for some food. I can’t remember when I’ve last eaten. What do you say, John? I suggest we skip Indian for a while. I do know of a good Vietnamese quite nearby though.”

“Oh, all right, off you go. You can come in and give your statements tomorrow.” Lestrade waves them away.

“Lestrade, Mycroft.” Sherlock nods at them and saunters off with John in tow.

He’s one up on Mycroft. Oh, what a glorious day.

***

“Right,” Mr Lowsley says. “I’ve great news for you boys. A parent who wishes to remain anonymous has kindly offered to pay the licence fee to Great Ormond Street Hospital for our production of _Peter Pan_. The last time we were able to stage the play was ten years ago so you’re all very lucky for being able to participate.”

He looks around at his little herd of actors and extras expectantly. No one moves.

“Right. I’ve decided to assign the roles as following. You Holmes, will be Peter Pan. Percy-Smith, you’ll take the part of Wendy. And you Willoughby, will be perfect in the role of Captain Hook … “ 

A sharp cry of protest rises from the corner where Percy-Smith and Willoughby are seated. Mr Lowsley lowers the paper from which he is reading. “Now, what is it?”

Percy-Smith raises his hand before rising himself. “Excuse me, Mr Lowsley,” he starts. “Holmes is younger than we are, he shouldn’t be given such an important role.”

“No, it’s not fair,” Willoughby adds for good measure. They both glare at Sherlock, who’s sitting to their left in the front row.

“He shouldn’t,” Mr Lowsley repeats. He lifts his glasses from his nose and sticks one of the temple-tips into his mouth. “Pray, explain to me again why you think this shouldn’t be so. For I don’t consider the reason you’ve offered me so far to be valid. Artistic merit ought to be our guiding principle, not seniority.”

“I’ve had all the major roles in our productions for the last two years,” Percy-Smith states.

“You have indeed,” Mr Lowsley enjoins, “and most admirably so. You were just lucky I guess, then, Holmes here hasn’t joined our forces until recently.” 

The glasses are perched on the bridge of his nose again and he throws Percy-Smith a disapproving look through them. “As you appear to have forgotten over the course of the holidays I wasn’t very happy with your portrayal of the lovely fairy queen during the last play we staged. If one had to judge her personality by your interpretation one would have thought her to be nothing but a dairy maid—”

Percy-Smith reddens upon hearing this estimation of his acting.

“—Who had fallen out with the stable boy.” Mr Lowsley includes Willoughby in his assessment. “So I guess you should count yourself lucky I’ve decided to trust you with these important roles in our new play. If you’re not happy with my decision, I’m willing to reconsider. The part of Nana is important as well – though I had Taunton in mind for that part seeing how it doesn’t require one to remember any text except for ‘woof’ – and let’s not forget the crocodile.”

Both Percy-Smith and Willoughby sit down.

“Now then,” Mr Lowsley continues. “You, Fitzpatrick, will take the role of Smee and you … 

“The only reason he managed to pull off that role is because he’s a weird little goblin himself,” Willoughby can be heard whispering to Percy-Smith. They both snigger. Sherlock can feel their eyes burning in his back. Like Mr Lowsley he ignores the pair of them, remaining quietly in his chair. 

He’ll show them.

*** 

“Sherlock! How are you? See you in the music room at five, all right?” Contrary to the school’s etiquette Oliver has dashed away from the group of older boys passing Sherlock to greet him and grab him by his arm. The other boys stand waiting patiently for Oliver, appearing not to mind their friend addressing a younger boy in a friendly manner. Sherlock supposes Oliver must have a secret hold over these others for them to accept his highly unusual behaviour so placidly. Especially seeing how he has the further disadvantage of being interested in playing what Sherlock has heard termed ‘classical music’ in voices dripping with disdain. To be taken seriously as far as one’s taste in music is concerned, one should enjoy the primitive rhythms and off-key screaming Warburton and Pleasance keep torturing him with, apparently. Sherlock has learned to suppress the urge to put his hands against his ears to block the screeching from entering his ears when they raise the volume of their little transistor radio to a level he finds unbearable.

“Thank you, Oliver. I will be there,” he pipes up with all the required deference, lowered eyelashes and all. He hurries on towards English class; he’s already five minutes late because he got distracted by a spider approaching a fly that had been hopelessly caught in her web. He had identified himself with the poor fly, the insect was alive still and tugging at the strands that held him with a feeble flutter of its powerless wings, desperate to escape the fate awaiting it.

***

_”Shall we go for a walk in the woods?” Daddy asks._

_“Yes, Daddy. I’d love to,” Sherlock answers._

_“Come on then.”_

By now he’s learned not to cry out anymore. School is great for teaching you to constrain yourself, even while asleep.

***

_25th February, 1985_

_Dear Sherlock,_

_First of all I do apologise for not replying any sooner. My little charge and I have been away to visit the art galleries in Tuscany and Rome so I couldn’t collect my post until yesterday and read your charming thank-you note. Well done, Sherlock. Your vocabulary has improved considerably over the last three months._

_Dear boy, I was so glad to read you like the microscope. I wanted to give you a birthday present that would be of use to you even though I realise most of the year it will just be sitting there gathering dust in your room (although I surmise Mary won’t allow one speck of dust to settle on it for more than a week at a time). I do hope it will bring you joy and many excellent discoveries when you return for your holidays._

_Speaking of which, I am most truly sorry to hear about your mother’s behaviour towards you during the weeks you spent at home. Mycroft’s letters during the last term were full of hope and confidence for her recovery, but sadly she doesn’t appear to have improved in this respect at all._

_I do beseech you though, my dear Sherlock, to remain confident. As I explained to Mycroft, your mother’s loss is still very recent, your dear father having passed away only a year ago. Of course, to you, a year feels like a very long period of time, but if you only sit down and think upon the average life span of a human being, you’ll find it isn’t. You should allow her a little more time to regain her senses. Things will never be easy between the two of you. It pains me to have to write these words but they are the truth. The truth is the only thing that matters and we should always search for it, however painful it may be. However, I do hope, over time, as you become older, you and your mother might come to an understanding at least._

_Honestly, dear boy, I do miss you very much, as I miss Mycroft. Not to mention John and Cook and Nanny. Still, coming over to visit you is not feasible, I’m afraid, for reasons I won’t trouble you with, so it’s no use continuing to ask._

_We will meet again in the future, Sherlock, I promise you that and I’ll stick to my promise but in the meantime all we can do is maintain our relationship through the service and courtesy of Her Majesty’s Royal Mail._

_Yours sincerely,_

_Edmund Talbot_

***

It’s already dark as he hastens from the sports complex to his dorm room. Mr Wilberforce has kept him and the other boys on the team swimming far too long, enthusing about the fine form they’re in and exhorting them to prepare themselves for the upcoming swimming competition which he deems to be terribly important. 

Finally they were allowed to go and shower and change and then Mr Wilberforce came into the changing room and told Sherlock he wanted to discuss something with him.

Sherlock had pointed out that the hour he was supposed to be back his room had already come and gone a long while ago but Mr Wilberforce said it was all right, he had contacted Mrs Norton and told her Sherlock would be in later so she shouldn’t be worried.

“I gather you will enjoy my news, Sherlock,” he continued. “At long last Coach has given his permission for you to dispense with two hours a week of general sports. You can spend those in the boxing and fencing classes I’m giving instead.” He grinned and eyed Sherlock expectantly.

Well, he _was_ glad, and grateful. Of course he was. The less time wasted running around on a field with that abominable man shouting at them, the better. So he thanked Mr Wilberforce extensively before pointing out he really must be off and now he’s running across the dark school terrain towards the lights of his house. The window of his room blinks at him, Warburton’s shadow moving behind it. 

It’s just another hundred yards or so to the front door when he’s forcefully hit between his shoulder blades. The attack is so unexpected he reels with it. Before he has time to recover himself he’s dealt a forceful blow to his left side and he crumples on all fours. The next second his assailants are all over him, kicking him in the side. They roll him over onto his back and he tries to get up and fight them, managing to bring one of them down by clutching the boy’s leg and yanking at it, causing the aggressor to fall on his backside and curse him for a bloody nasty little bugger. Until now no word has been spoken and Sherlock recognises the voice to be Willoughby’s. That’s the last coherent thought he’s capable of before he descends into a gravel pit of pain and confusion caused by the jolts that keep coming at him, raining down into his stomach, onto his chest and shoulders and aimed at his legs. The only part of him that’s left unhandled is his head, spelling out their message to him: ‘don’t tell anyone.’

At first he tries to ward off the blows but they’re too many; he calculates there are three boys attacking him, each of them bigger and stronger than he is. Percy-Smith has settled himself on Sherlock’s hips, holding him down between thighs that are clasping his sides like a vice.

“Why don’t you save yourself and fly away, Peter Pan?” he keeps repeating with each thump he delivers. His face is a mask of hate, drool dribbling down his chin from his open, panting mouth. Sherlock doesn’t answer him, concentrating on alternately softening and hardening himself against their hitting like John has taught him. To give them a struggle is useless and will only goad them into hitting him harder. If he doesn’t resist they will get bored and leave him alone all the sooner.

“You’re disgusting, you little shit. You make me want to puke all over you,” Percy-Smith snarls and he heaves himself up to loom over Sherlock, his throat working convulsively, gathering spittle. A great gob is spat and lands on Sherlock’s cheek, warm and alien and repulsive, smelling faintly sour.

Percy-Smith laughs, a dry barking sound without mirth, raising his laughter as both Willoughby and Fitzpatrick step forward to add their load to Sherlock’s face. “That’s what you get for being Mr Lowsley’s dear little baby,” Willoughby grunts. He reaches down and grabs a handful of Sherlock’s hair, jerking at it and forcing Sherlock to stand, though he is hardly able to. “Off with you to Never Never Land now. And if you so much as breathe a word about this to anyone, we know where to find you.”

With that he lets go of Sherlock’s hair, puts his hands in his pockets and saunters off at a nonchalant pace with Percy-Smith and Fitzpatrick tagging along behind him.

Sherlock falls onto the dank earth. With one hand he wipes the sordid spittle from his face, retching at the viscous sensation. Every part of his torso and legs hurts. If the Headmaster himself would descend upon him and order him to raise himself he couldn’t obey, even had he wanted to. He feels like he will never be able to stand upright again. Which is nonsense, they’ve hurt him but nothing inside him has cracked or broken under their assault. His real injury lies in his consciousness of the deliberateness and intense viciousness of the encroachment.

He groans and heaves himself up to a sitting position to better push the heels of his hands against his eyes to force back the tears that keep welling up behind his eyes, intent on brimming over to make him feel miserable and sorry for himself. He won’t do that. 

What he _will_ do is make a success of his role and act so well Mr Lowsley will be sent into an endless exaltation of rapture and make all the others green with envy. Do they really think they can make him beg Mr Lowsley to please relieve him of the responsibility and let someone else take the role? Oh, he would laugh at the stupidity of that idea if his ribs weren’t hurting him so.

Grunting with the pain, he stands and starts the slow trek up to the house. By the time he reaches the front door he feels he has recovered enough to put up a good fight against Warburton and Pleasance, should they choose to take advantage off his apparent moment of weakness.

***

“Good grief, Sherlock! Whatever happened to you?” Mr Wilberforce asks as Sherlock heads out of the changing room in the direction of the pool two days later.

“Nothing, Mr Wilberforce,” he answers.

“I know you’re always fighting but this is ridiculous,” Mr Wilberforce keeps on, as if Sherlock hasn’t spoken at all. “How many boys did you take on this time?”

“It doesn’t matter,” Sherlock says and he dives into the pool and starts swimming furiously. His anger makes him speed through the water like a Sailfish. 

_Leave me alone_ , he chants in his head. _Leave me alone, leave me alone, leave me alone …_

Back at the house Mrs Norton stands awaiting him in the hall.

“Please come with me, Sherlock,” she says, not unkindly.

He follows her to her little office. Once inside she locks the door behind them.

“Please strip down to your underwear,” she instructs him. So Mr Willoughby has phoned her and told her about the bruises that cover his body like a wildly excessive tattoo. Sherlock stares her in the face.

“I won’t tell you their names,” he says, pushing his chin forward to underline his words.

She sighs. “I know you well enough by now to understand you won’t. I just want to assess the damage.”

He turns his back on her and takes off his clothes. 

“Turn around, please.”

He’s aware the discolorations on his skin are not a pretty sight but her obvious shock is still a surprise to him. He’s understood by now she does actually like him so maybe he should have expected her display of discomfort on seeing him thus.

“That must be hurting terribly,” Mrs Norton states. Sherlock’s ears discern her effort to sound calm and objective. He shrugs. Of course it hurts. Like actual bloody hell. 

“You may dress yourself again, Sherlock.” Mrs Norton walks over to her desk and sits down in her chair. She picks up a pencil and starts tapping it lightly against the underside of her jaw.

“I’d like to inform you I’ve actually got a pretty good idea who is responsible for this,” she informs him. “I’ll talk about it with Mr Lowsley. He’s rather good at bruising egos that aren’t very well adapted to accepting disappointments. Don’t worry, they won’t have an inkling. It’s no use antagonising them any further. I just want to make sure you won’t have to endure any other unwanted attentions in the future.”

He’s dressed again and stands waiting for her to dismiss him.

“Well, what are you waiting for? Off you go,” she says and waves with her hand. 

Edward is just walking past as he pops out of the office.

“Everything all right, Sherlock?” he asks, his eyes big and fretful. He’s afraid of Mrs Norton, like he’s afraid of everyone and everything.

“Couldn’t be better,” Sherlock smiles at him. He just hopes Mrs Norton knows what she’s doing.

***

“ … Which of course is why these little gatherings are organised every Sunday afternoon by my lovely wife.” The Headmaster concludes his little speech to stare expectantly around the little circle of boys sitting stiff and bored silly with a cup and saucer in their hands or munching the (dry and plain awful) fruitcake they’ve been treated to. He smiles and nods in the direction of his wife, responsible for the undrinkable tea and uneatable savouries, sitting opposite him. She smiles and nods back at him.

It’s frightening really how alike they are in their demeanour and movements, like they’re puppets cast from the same mould and attached to strings that are moved by the same hand of the same puppeteer. Her bright ginger hair lights up in the bleak late February sun slanting through the window. 

“Now, have any of you boys got questions?” the Headmaster asks. “Or anything you’d like to tell me?”

Ten pairs of eyes take great interest in studying the faint rose pattern of the carpet beneath their chairs. They sit in silence until Edward’s nervous cough rings through the room. He reddens all the way to his scalp.

“No one?” the Headmaster prods them. His wife sighs.

Sherlock flicks his gaze at the man before looking down at the carpet again. He’s been distracted by the two dark hairs on the man’s jacket ever since he was received into the house, wondering who they belong to. The Headmaster himself has short blonde hair, his wife is ginger, they have two girls that have ginger hair as well, their dog is a yellow Labrador Retriever and their two cats are tabbies. So how did those long black hairs end up on the dark grey herringbone twill tweed jacket the Headmaster is wearing?

“Would any of you like another cup of tea?” the wife asks in an attempt to garner any reaction from them.

“No madam. – Thank you madam. – Very kind, but no thank you madam,” the boys mumble before falling silent again.

The Headmaster laughs, a high whinnying sound of uneasiness. He takes a huge gulp of his tea.

“Well, I never,” he splutters. “What a highly unusual lot you are. Come on, you haven’t lost your tongues now, have you?” 

Each of them are treated to an enquiring look. His gaze comes to rest upon Sherlock; he sets his eyes travelling over Sherlock’s form, from the top of his head down to his shoes and back again.

“You,” he says. “What is your name?”

“My name is Sherlock Holmes, sir.”

“Holmes. Ah, you were such a great success in our last play. Now I remember. And you … yes, you play the violin as well. Together with … ah, what’s his name … oh yes, Graves-Steel, our cello player. Surely you have a question for me, Holmes. You look like the inquisitive type to me?”

Sherlock looks back at the man. He’s about to shake his head in denial when the Headmaster bursts out at him: “Don’t sit there like a salt pillar, say something.”

“Well sir … if you please sir,” Sherlock stammers and watches as the man’s eyebrows knit in annoyance, “I was wondering about the hairs on your jacket.”

The Headmaster stares at him in amazement.

“The … hairs … on … my … jacket,” he repeats, stressing each word as if Sherlock is thick-witted.

“Yes sir,” Sherlock carries on, already deeply regretting opening his mouth but somehow unable to stop. “Two long dark hairs on the left-hand shoulder of your jacket and … “

Three chairs away from him a china cup falls to the floor, splattering tea over the roses of the carpet. They all look up at the wife who has risen with an abrupt movement and now stands looking at her husband who – ten pairs of eyes are flicked to the other side of the room to watch the Headmaster – has turned an unhealthy chalky colour. 

The wife’s hands are balled into fists. She stands glaring at the Headmaster with bulging eyes. Suddenly she opens her mouth.

“I despise you,” she growls. Sherlock looks at her in fascination, he didn’t know a woman’s voice could reach such a low register, it definitely hits middle C. She pivots on her heels and strides out of the room without taking her leave of them, slamming the door shut behind her.

The Headmaster sits dabbing his forehead with a handkerchief.

“Right,” he says. “Well, the tea party is over, boys. Thank you for coming. Off you go now.”

They all stand and place their cups and saucers on the table.

“Good day sir. – Thank you, sir,” they file out of the room. The Headmaster remains seated, not returning their greeting. He’s looking daggers at Sherlock.

Oh, what has he done wrong now? The man wanted him to ask a question and he complied, didn’t he? Sherlock can’t help that this woman is apparently a lunatic as well, just like Mummy.

***

“Oh Sherlock,” Mrs Norton sighs and shakes her head. The pencil taps away at her jaw furiously. “I thought you were smart.”

She buries her face in her hands. Her shoulders heave and strange muffled sounds escape from her. At first Sherlock is convinced she’s crying but she lets her hands fall down onto the desk and lifts her head and he finds she’s laughing.

“Only imagine,” she gasps. “Oh, I would have liked to see the look on his face at your words. Only imagine… ” 

***

Mycroft writes he can’t go into the details of why Sherlock’s observation was met in such a strange manner. He hopes the experience taught Sherlock not to blurt out everything he notices about people. After all, Sherlock already knows other people are less attentive to their surroundings than he is. People like living in a distorted reality and wish to remain ignorant about most of the things that are happening to them. Sherlock should respect their privacy and not point out what may be perfectly obvious to him but clearly isn’t to them.

‘People like living in a fragile world filled with illusions, Sherlock.’ Sherlock reads. ‘Your task in life is not to shatter those.’

Lying on his bed he crumples the letter in his hand. Whatever can Mycroft mean by those words? What message is he trying to convey through these fuzzy sentences, their blurriness the exact opposite of Mycroft’s usual clear language? Sherlock didn’t want to shatter any illusions, he was forced to make conversation and picked the first subject that presented itself in his mind. What else could he do?

He sits up, raises his arm and throws the ball of paper in the direction of the wastepaper basket next to the lockers. 

He’s not going to answer such a stupid letter.

***

_School for Boys  
26th May, 1985_

_Dear John,_

_It’s hot, isn’t it? I’ll have to participate in another boring swimming competition in two weeks’ time. The only good thing about it is that I’m now obliged to spend hours in the outdoor pool. Mrs Norton has insisted I should wear a long-sleeved vest while training and yet I’m faster than I was half a year ago. Mr Willoughby is very enthusiastic about our efforts, but then, he always is._

_I have very exciting news, though I do hope I won’t disappoint you with it. Oliver Graves-Steel has asked me to spend part of my holiday back at his place so we can make music together for as long as we like._

_I wrote to Mr Mancini to ask whether he thought that would be a good idea. He was very enthusiastic about it and told me to accept the invitation. Of course he has heard Oliver play during the Christmas concert and he thinks Oliver has all the makings of a great cellist._

_Mycroft gave his permission yesterday. In his letter he sounded very pleased._

_So I will spend the first two weeks of the holiday in Berkshire. Oliver’s mother plays the viola so I expect we will be playing a lot of trios._

_The only drawback to me is that I will have less time to spend with you and Nanny and Cook. I will write to Cook and ask her to send me an extra big hamper to compensate for losing out on her cooking for two weeks._

_I remember Daddy was always very pleased with the combination of the Bonsoir tulips with the Blue basket forget-me-nots so I’m happy to read they are doing so well on his grave. I’ll ask Mycroft whether you can borrow his camera. Will you make me a picture if he consents?_

_We’re going through the last rehearsals for the school play now. I’m so disappointed Mycroft has written you can’t come and see me as I’m convinced I will be very good. Mr Lowsley keeps repeating I’m doing very well so I’m not boasting. I would have liked to act for you, John. I promise I will act for you once I’m home but of course you’ll have to imagine the setting yourself then so that really spoils it._

_I wrote to Mycroft to tell him I thought he was being very small-minded but he hasn’t answered me._

_That’s all for now. I’m wanted in the music room to rehearse for the school concert in five minutes so I really must be off now. Goodbye._

_A tight hug from Sherlock_

***

“Not a word,” John says, closing the newspaper he’s just been flicking through for the second time. He sounds completely flabbergasted. Sherlock harrumphs in response. Really, John has known Mycroft long enough by now to know his brother is addicted to secrecy. Sherlock would have been surprised if there _had_ been so much as a three-line story on page seven.

“I mean,” John fumbles on, “I know Mycroft would be greatly displeased to find any of this in the papers but the Yard was there and I did see that reporter from the Daily Mail …”

“Yes,” Sherlock confirms, turning the page in his search for anything unusual to have happened over the past twenty-four hours. “I’d like to have some more tea, John.” He pushes his cup over the breakfast table into the general direction of his flatmate.

John sighs and Sherlock can feel his glare through the paper he’s scrutinising. He pretends not to notice and finally John gets up, grabs the cup and heads off in the direction of the kitchen.

“And some more toast as well,” Sherlock shouts after him. “I’ve got quite an appetite this morning.” That should make John happy, seeing as how he’s always going on about his dietary habits.

The only answer is the banging of a cupboard door.

Five minutes later, tea and toast are shoved in front of his nose.

“Thank you, John,” he breezes and starts buttering his toast.

John sits down again. “I guess this means Mycroft controls the newspapers as well,” he muses.

“Oh, I wouldn’t say that. He’s not some superhuman Rupert Murdoch. He just makes sure nothing he doesn’t want published, gets published. All with regard to his dealings for the greater good of the general public of course. He won’t interfere with any nonsense the editors might want to gossip about in the celebrity pages.”

“He can’t keep me from blogging about it.”

“You can try, John. But I’m afraid you’ll find the page will go blank within two seconds after you’ve posted. Our dealings with our Indian friends are destined to become as notorious as that story about the giant rat of Sumatra.”

“Oh, what’s that about then? Can’t say I’ve ever heard of that.”

“Exactly.”

Right that moment his phone buzzes with a text alert. He looks down at the screen.

“That’s Lestrade telling us we needn’t come in for our statements. He’s understood the message as well then,” Sherlock says, unable to keep the note of satisfaction out of his voice. “Well, thank god for that. I was certainly not looking forward to having my good mood spoiled by an accidental encounter with Anderson.” He sips his tea. “That means I’ve finally got the time to finish my poison experiment. I hope the toes are still in decent shape. They’ve been lying in the fridge for five days.”

“Oh, great,” John groans.

“I’m not asking you to help,” he retorts. 

***

_The Manor  
15th August, 1985_

_Dear Sherlock,_

_I’m afraid I have to give you some very bad news. My father has received his long awaited promotion at last. Of course he was very happy to be promoted but it consists of the Australian directorship of his company. He’s expected to take over on the first of September._

_My parents will have to move to Australia of course. They’ve decided they want me and my brother and sister to move as well. They want us to be near them. We all objected, we don’t want to leave England but they are adamant so we have to go._

_I will miss the school and I will miss you, Sherlock. Now I’m even gladder you stayed with us for two weeks, giving us the chance to share the music we played together. You are very gifted and I’m sure you will become a very famous violinist. Maybe we’ll have a chance to play together again in the future._

_Frankly, I’m very angry with my parents but I’ve shouted at them and they simply didn’t listen._

_We will be leaving in a week so I won’t have a chance to say goodbye to you._

_I wish you all the best,_

_Oliver Graves-Steel_

***


	9. Homo Homini Lupus est, chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For a second they’re so close he could have counted the pores in Browning’s blotched skin if he’d felt the inclination. The next thing he knows his right fist lands straight on the left side of Browning’s chin. It’s a perfect hit, Browning’s open jaw snaps shut with a loud click that cracks through the air. Around them a shockwave of murmuring swells up from the circle surrounding them. Sherlock lands on his feet the moment Browning starts swaying, shaking his head like a bull that has been shot by a tranquilising pistol and tries to fathom why it’s suddenly all drowsy and unable to remain standing on its legs.

John steps out of a changing cubicle and for three seconds Sherlock’s convinced, absolutely certain, John Watson has been the one behind it all from the start. Devising the puzzles, stringing him along on this wild goose chase that’s sent them gallivanting around the whole of Greater London, the bombings. So easy for John to gain access to 221C, after all, and he’d been inordinately proud of the silly title of his blog entry. 

“John,” he breathes, inaudible.

Sherlock wants to cry with the disappointment, and with the anger and frustration. He’d been so sure John was his friend, his first true friend since John died, and Mr Talbot, and now it turns out he’s been betrayed once again. This time however he can’t accuse Mycroft of instigating his friend’s treachery. He won’t end up storming into Mycroft’s office to throw himself upon his brother and start hitting him, kicking and thrashing at his form with his fists, the sight of John in this hideous parka before his eyes like that awful image of Victor in his wedding clothes, entering the church.

The oppressing smell of the chlorinated water turns his stomach. Sherlock blinks to fight the nausea rising up in his throat. John’s voice floats towards him over the lapping surface of the water.

“Evening. This is a turn up, isn’t it, Sherlock?”

Oh, the relief flooding through him upon hearing those words. Absurd relief, for John is in extreme danger, the bomber’s fifth victim, they _both_ are in danger. 

Nothing they can’t handle though. John is a soldier, he walked out of Afghanistan. He was hurt and lost when they bumped into each other at Bart’s like pieces of driftwood floating on the great wide ocean. Thirty-six hours later John had been healed by Sherlock and shot a man for him. For his friend, for Sherlock, who was nearly dead when Lestrade found him and has been threatened with death since more times than he cares to remember and now they’ve both ended up here at this horrid place – he hates pools, whatever made him propose the pool as a meeting place? _Stop it. That’s no use now. Think!_ – and they’re probably going to die.

“John.” He’s speaking out loud now. “What the hell…”

“Bet you never saw this coming.”

John’s face. The infinite sadness on John’s face, hidden there beneath the resignation. He’s prepared to die, to die for Sherlock, for what they’ve shared. Hot indignation flares up inside Sherlock’s chest. Who the hell does this Moriarty think he is? Does he really believe he’s that clever, more clever than Sherlock Holmes? There’s only one man alive who’s smarter than Sherlock and there’s no way Sherlock would ever admit that, not even to himself. Can anyone please step forward and explain what’s so crafty about rigging people up in a bomb jacket and having a sniper aim at them? It’s pathetic, really. Evidence of a self-inflated ego, nothing more. 

He’ll concede Moriarty has been nothing but surprises. They’ve had great fun together. Except Sherlock has had enough now. Moriarty may have made the mistake to think that in abducting John and fitting him out like this he has done nothing but put together the ultimate nasty bombshell to spring upon them, but in Sherlock’s opinion he has gone too far. Moriarty has overplayed his hand by making John a part of this. _It’s all part of the great game._ Oh, that was Daddy’s voice, wasn’t it? That was what Daddy always told Mummy. 

They’ll be playing the finale of _this_ great game and he’s going to win. Sherlock will outsmart Moriarty, he’ll think of something. Because John and he are friends. Because John and he are _together_ and they will walk out of this pool _together_ and take a cab home and they will live _together_ for the rest of their lives!

He’s cocked the gun and he’s waiting for Moriarty to arrive.

***

Sherlock broke down in front of Mr Mancini after telling him about Oliver’s letter. The old man sat holding him, murmuring comforting nonsense. 

Back at school it’s Mr Robinson who does the anguishing, and the complaining. The music teacher is sitting behind the piano in a forlorn manner, leafing through some sheet music while saying he can’t be expected to organise a musical evening when there’s only one pupil with an actual understanding of music left in the whole school. Sherlock stands staring out of the window, ignoring his teacher’s whines. Inwardly he’s screaming for the man to shut up.

“Shall we play?” he asks, pivoting on his heel and placing his violin into position.

Mr Robinson stares at him for a moment, clearly taken aback.

“If you wish,” he mumbles. “What is it going to be, Sherlock?”

“What do you think of Brahms’ _Rain Sonata_?”

“Won’t that be a bit heavy? Brahms being Brahms after all?”

“Not if you leave the pedals alone,” Sherlock blurts and claps his hand in front of his mouth. Mr Robinson smiles and wags a finger at him.

“Fine. And you know what? We’ll make a recording of the concert and send it to Oliver. Come on, Sherlock. We’re going to astonish them all.”

***

Oh, the boredom. The stupid, tedious, stultifying boredom! He spends half his time in the classroom, almost all the classrooms, sitting with his forehead stuck to his desk. His head hurts so much with the effort to stay seated he is moaning – moaning in complete silence in order not to give himself away but of course the teachers have by now realised he’s not following their lessons at all. 

Mr Fallon’s and Mr Steward’s classes are the only ones that are endurable. Mr Fallon keeps feeding him with information, sending him off on an exploration of the atom and launching him into space to discover the ever-expanding boundaries of the universe. He laps it all up gratefully, though it makes little sense to do so. The world’s greatest violinist will have little use for his knowledge of neutrinos but for now it helps him to go through an extra few hours every week that aren’t totally insufferable. 

Mr Steward is their English teacher but he’s a dedicated lover of all things Grecian, spending every holiday travelling through the country. At Mycroft’s request he’s taken it upon himself to teach Sherlock Modern Greek. His pupil’s enthusiastic response has recently led to an expanding of his teachings to include Ancient Greek as well. While his classmates are working through their boring lists of irregular verbs or struggling with _The Wind in the Willows_ Sherlock spends his time translating hexameters bewailing the slaying of Hector into English and back into Ancient Greek again.

Unfortunately the time allotted to those occupations is far surpassed by the hours of tedium he doesn’t spend in the music room, or swimming, or boxing and fencing, or rehearsing in the school play.

His teachers never urge him to sit straight and attend the lesson. They’re probably grateful he isn’t causing a commotion. As long as he keeps his head firmly connected to his desk and doesn’t start banging the surface with it he may sit suffering through their mind-numbing classes as much as he likes. Most of them prefer that to him sitting at attention and staring at them or scrutinising his class mates. Both Mr Atkinson (Geography) and Mr Lawrence (French) have rebuked him sharply for observing them, telling him to stop it as he was giving them ‘the creeps’.

Personally, Sherlock considers that a minor return for their clumsy attempts at murdering him through sheer tediousness. However, he has chosen to pick up the gauntlet thrown his way and set himself the task of working out how to examine his teachers without them noticing. The best approach appears to be to pretend he’s busy doing something else. This self-imposed undertaking may be anything from counting the number of flies buzzing lazily in the schoolroom to doodling frantically on a piece of paper. Actually paying attention to the interaction between the teacher and the class has so far proved to be a less successful strategy as Sherlock can’t refrain himself from snorting with contempt at all the glaringly wrong and stupid answers his classmates insist on giving.

Well, he’s _so_ sorry for being smarter than the whole lot of them thrown together and multiplied by ten, except he’s not.

He’s sorry for them being so boring though, so very, very, _very_ boring.

***

What is love? Mummy claims she loves Daddy. She broke his mother’s tortoiseshell mirror and afterwards she said she’d done so because she loved him. Now she’s tearing at her hair, and wailing and she’s sent Sherlock of to this stupid school he hates because she loves Daddy and can’t stand the sight of Sherlock because he resembles her beloved Sherlock so much. 

Sherlock sits flicking through the pages of the play Mr Lowsley has just handed out to them. He is to be Viola and as such he will have to confess himself to be desperately in love with Percy-Smith’s Orsino. Sherlock wonders what prop he will be handed to fling violently against the stage floor to prove his love.

“Holmes, pay attention, please?”

Sherlock flicks up his eyelashes and is confronted with Percy-Smith’s smirk. He locks eyes with him, willing himself not to blink. Percy-Smith is the one to break the contact, slanting his gaze to the left.

“No reason to complain, I gather,” Mr Lowsley says, addressing Percy-Smith deliberately.

“No sir,” Percy-Smith mumbles, reddening and scratching his neck.

“And you Willoughby, my dear Olivia, will be content as well. Won’t you, my lady?”

“Yes sir. Thank you, sir.”

“So happy to oblige you. Your ready consent has already decided me our summer play will be _All’s well that ends well_. Wouldn’t that be fitting? But first, _Twelfth Night_! Yet another play in which the great playwright shows us he didn’t suffer fools gladly.”

If Mrs Norton were in the room she would send Mr Lowlsey a reproving glance, shaking her head at him. She isn’t, however, so bearing her words about Mr Lowsley in mind Sherlock takes great care to keep his gaze fixed firmly to the floor and not give in to the temptation to snigger behind his booklet. 

***

Revulsion is making his stomach heave. The sheen of sweat that has sprung up on his face is cooling rapidly in the fresh air of the classroom, making him shiver. Sherlock looks down at the book lying on his desk again. This can’t be true. 

He tries to imagine Daddy sticking his penis inside Mummy, between her legs, and the thought almost makes him retch. Some mornings his own penis is stiff when he wakes and that’s terribly inconvenient as it makes peeing almost impossible. So it can’t have been very nice for Daddy and yet he must have chosen to do so twice, once for Mycroft and once for him. For that’s how children are made apparently. How _utterly revolting_. Dirty and unhygienic. Poor Daddy to have been forced to do that so Mycroft and Sherlock could be born. Certainly there must be a more practical and efficient way to create children. In a laboratory, with a scientist mixing the egg and the sperm cell in a clean test tube. 

That would have been better for Mummy as well. For her the whole process must have been even worse. Daddy must have hurt her when he stuck his penis inside her and then she had to carry Sherlock around inside her body for nine months and then, oh… Sherlock gasps and feels for his own head with both his hands as comprehension bubbles up in him. 

That’s what happens when one is being born. He came out of Mummy, out of her down between her legs, and that must have to her like she was being torn apart. Of course he was much smaller then but still, the pain must have been excruciating. No wonder she hates him for he must have hurt her, hurt her so much, it’s unforgivable. Nothing he can ever do will be enough to make it up to her.

Oh, that’s just… wicked. That’s the word she’s always using for him and now he understands how right she is. His head feels heavy under all the responsibility he carries for her pain and it starts sinking slowly of its own accord; he finds he’s unable to keep it upright. Down it sinks, down to the desk where the book is lying with a drawing of what his mother looks like beneath her clothes, inside her skin. 

He wants to scream but he’s not going to do that.

Instead, he forces himself to even out his breathing, to fight the feeling of culpability. Surely it’s not right for him to feel guilty. He didn’t ask for Mummy to open her legs so Daddy could plant the core of Sherlock inside her, leaving him no option but to fight himself out of her body nine months later. Besides, he’s the second one, isn’t he? She and Daddy had done it before, made Mycroft that way, and Mycroft was born in the same way as he. He must have pushed at her insides and ripped her apart as much as Sherlock has, so she was forewarned about the pain Sherlock would give her, _couldn’t help giving her_ , and yet she’d decided to go through with it again.

Yes, Mycroft must have hurt her as well and yet she doesn’t hate Mycroft, she loves him.

The realisation makes him sit straight again. He casts a last glance at the terrifying picture of his mother’s insides before turning the page. The next page shows a drawing of a head that’s cut straight through, showing the brain and the tongue and the eyeballs. 

He sits back and feels how his body unwinds itself, the tension flowing out of him. 

Now this is much more interesting. 

***

“Sherlock! Wait for me.”

Edward’s cry reaches him from the end of the corridor. Edward is always late. He grabs his things together at the end of the lesson in such a clumsy manner it takes him far longer than any other boy to leave the classroom.

“Thank you,” Edward puffs, catching up with Sherlock. Sherlock says nothing but pivots on his heels and marches off, Edward hopping beside him. 

A clump of senior boys comes bearing down upon them from the other side, led by a big boy named Browning. This Browning is akin to the school terrorist, lording it over the other boys like the leader of a tribal community. As far as Sherlock has discerned he isn’t exactly popular but even the worst bullies are afraid of him. In a fight he uses the great looming hulk of his body to suffocate his opponent. He throws himself at the unfortunate boy, smashing him down with the impact of his mass of flesh and bones, like a huge tree falling down on a small car. The school’s lore has it he’s never lost a fight. Everybody is so afraid of him he hasn’t been challenged once during the time Sherlock has attended the school. 

Sherlock and Edward are about to pass the group when Browning’s arm shoots out to give Edward a shove. The small boy yelps and tumbles to the ground, books flying everywhere. Browning snorts derisively, the boys of his entourage heehaw like hyenas. Edward remains sprawled on the ground. At least he’s struggling to fight the tears Sherlock knows are already welling up behind Edward’s eyes. Sherlock stands beside the helpless form of his dorm mate, inside him he can feel his blood starting to boil. Warburton and Pleasance try to play tricks like these continuously. Now Sherlock realises he’s become immune to Edward’s silent endurance of their behaviour, and he reproaches himself for it. 

Still, the calculated tormenting by Pleasance and Warburton, who have a position to defend after all, is less offensive than the casual cruelty of this assault. Browning has no reason to hurl this small harmless boy to the ground except to solicit a reluctant laugh from his comrades. Somehow that’s so utterly _wrong_!

The group has already sauntered on. Furious, Sherlock whirls around and hurries after them. He reaches up to tap Browning on the shoulder. The bulking mass turns slowly, the face settled on top of the mountain of flesh and bones frowning. It starts to open its jaws but Sherlock speaks first.

“Why did you do that?” he says, his head thrown in his neck so he can stare up at the vacant visage hovering far above him. “You had no reason to, he’s nothing to you.” 

Absolute quiet has descended upon the corridor. The boys in Browning’s entourage stare at him in amazement. Behind him Sherlock can feel Edward cowering near the wall, suppressing the need to whimper.

“Huh, what—” Browning starts.

“What do you think gives you the right to hit people just like that?” Sherlock continues. His hands have curled themselves up into fists. A look of bewilderment creeps over the unattractive features of the giant, his mind is clearly busy trying to figure out how it is possible someone dares to approach him like this. Someone who is much smaller than he is. His first instinct is to raise his paw but Sherlock is quicker and dodges the blow easily. 

“I’m not going to fight you here,” he spats. “I have a lesson to attend. I’ll fight you fair and square later. I’ll be waiting for you behind the pool house at five. If you haven’t turned up by half past, the whole school will know you’re nothing but a despicable coward.”

“Sherlock, no,” Edward gasps.

“Go away, you stupid little piece of gob shite,” one of Browning’s staff attempts to shoo him off. “Ignore him, he’s clearly lost it. Must be mental,” the boy goes on to advise Browning.

“I’m not,” Sherlock scoffs. “Five o’clock behind the pool house. Come on, Edward.” 

He gives Browning a last look – the giant is still trying to register what has been happening in the past half minute. He’s slow, which is good – revolves and starts walking away at a measured pace with squared shoulders. It’s imminent he shouldn’t show any doubt or apprehension. The gauntlet has been thrown. Now he’ll have to fight the ogre.

“Sherlock, what have you done? He’s going to crush you, he’s going to annihilate you.” Edward scampers along beside him, panic squeezing his voice, making him sound like a mouse that has spotted the cat and is now running for its life.

“Oh, shut up, will you?” Sherlock spits at him. “He’s not going to hurt me. He’s stupid and slow.”

“But Sherlock, all he has to do is let himself fall down on you and he’ll pulverise you.”

“Now you almost make it sound like that would make you happy.”

Edward halts and gazes up at Sherlock. “No,” he declares. “No never, Sherlock. You know I do nothing but admire you and I’m very grateful to you for standing up for me. But you shouldn’t have done so. Now you have endangered yourself and what for? You know you can’t win. No one has ever beaten him.”

“Someone will have to be the first. Guess it has to be me.” Sherlock shrugs his shoulders. He mustn’t let himself be riled by Edward’s nervous apprehension. That would be stupid. “Now, come on, Edward. We’re late as it is.”

***

Several groups of boys are already loitering behind the pool house as Sherlock and Edward arrive at quarter to five. Warburton and Pleasance are leaning against a tree, acting like they’ve no idea who Sherlock might be. Percy-Smith, Willoughby and Fitzpatrick appear shortly after and make straight for Sherlock. Percy-Smith claps him on the shoulder in a friendly manner.

“The best of luck, Peter Pan,” he says. “You’re about to die but I’m glad to see you’re meeting your fate like a true hero. What a stupid bastard you are.”

“I have no intention of relinquishing my role in our play,” Sherlock answers him, shrugging off the hand. 

Percy-Smith grins and strolls off in the direction of a gang clustered around a boy who’s taking bets. The odds are the number of seconds it will take Browning to defeat Sherlock. Most betters appear to give him five at the maximum. Betting on the outcome of the fight is also possible but considered to be less of a sport as the outcome is a foregone conclusion. Currently the odds are fifty to one. Several elder boys comment Sherlock must have gone off his rocker definitely to have taken on the school’s certified heavy plate-armoured tank. 

“Isn’t he that moron that once sat banging his head on his desk?” one of them asks.

“Gosh, yes. Well, that explains it,” another enjoins.

“I suppose you can still call it off, Sherlock,” Edward urges him. “Maybe he will agree not to fight you if you apologise properly. Or ask Mrs Norton to intervene for you.”

“Don’t talk nonsense. Now, shut up. I’m concentrating.”

What Sherlock won’t admit is that his mind has been buzzing with the excitement of the upcoming fight all day. He’s been mentally rehearsing all the tricks John and Mr Wilberforce have taught him, practicing his footwork beneath the desk, turning over the image of Browning’s physical form in front of his eyes. Swift surprise will be his weapon; in fact, it’s his only chance of a favourable conclusion. That and a well-aimed right fist, straight into Browning’s jaw.

He glances down at his watch. Five past.

“Maybe he won’t come,” Edward whispers hopefully. 

“That would mean losing face before the whole school,” Sherlock tells him. “Besides he thinks he has nothing to fear from me. He wants to make me nervous by making me wait for him.”

“ _I’m_ nervous.”

“Yes, but you’re _always_ nervous,” Sherlock sighs. “I’m not. Look here, if all you can do is twitch and state I’ll end up in hospital I’d rather you’d go away. You’re not much of an actual help.”

“Oh no, Sherlock. Oh, I’m so sorry. I’ll shut up, I promise. Of course you’re going to win, you can do anything.”

“Thank you, Edward. That’s much better.”

That minute, Browning comes ambling around the corner. He stands still and lets his gaze travel over the tableau of a few dozen wound-up and excited boys. Under his scrutiny the various conversations peter out slowly but certainly until nothing can be heard but the faint rustling of the wind among the dry leaves that are about to fall down from the great trees surrounding the spot. 

Driven by instinct the different groups break up to form a big circle. Browning walks through it to end up standing in the middle. He looms over each and every one of them like a goliath. 

“I’ve been told the jammy sod that has volunteered for a beating is called Holmes,” he booms. “No doubt he’s hiding beneath his bed right now, pissing over himself and calling for his Mummy.”

The circle laughs uneasily. Browning will never be remembered as the school greatest wit but one is better safe than sorry.

Sherlock dashes forward from amidst the others. “I’m Holmes,” he says. “Unlike you I’m not a coward and a bully who only dares harass boys who are smaller than you are.”

He halts when there are about ten paces left between himself and Browning and lifts up his chin to look the hulk in the eye. “I’ll fight you now. And I’ll beat you. Because I’m smart and you’re not.”

Browning blinks at him. “What …?” he starts but Sherlock has already run up to him and afterwards it feels like he’s made use of the leverage the knees of the flabbergasted Browning provided him with to surge upwards so he’s face to face with his enemy. For a second they’re so close he could have counted the pores in Browning’s blotched skin if he’d felt the inclination. The next thing he knows his right fist lands straight on the left side of Browning’s chin. It’s a perfect hit, Browning’s open jaw snaps shut with a loud click that cracks through the air. A shock-wave of murmuring swells up from the circle surrounding them. Sherlock lands on his feet the moment Browning starts swaying, shaking his head like a bull that has been shot by a tranquilising pistol and tries to fathom why it’s suddenly all drowsy and unable to remain standing on its legs. He totters and then he crashes to the ground, the slap of his body hitting the grass amplified by the cry of incredulity wringing itself simultaneously out of over fifty anguished throats. 

One boy starts counting: “Ten, nine, eight…” Sherlock remains on the alert, fists ready to defend himself, if Browning should rise, but the giant frame stays prone on the ground, a boneless mass of blubber. 

“… two, one, zero,” the boy shrieks and at the last word the circle collapses, everyone struggling for a close look at the vanquished school menace or darting towards Sherlock to shake him by the hand or clap him on the shoulder to congratulate him on his victory. Edward stands yelling beside him, waving his arms in the air in exaltation, declaring Sherlock to be a genuine hero. Sherlock undergoes the blood-thirsty uproar meekly. Out of the corner of his eye he notices the boy that has been taking the bets has turned ashen, the only one not celebrating, apart from Browning and Sherlock himself, who’s feeling nothing but weary.

“Let me out. Let me go!” he says, fighting and swinging out at anonymous arms and legs and torsos to break free of the feasting mass of boys.

“Coach is here. – Coach. – Coach’s coming,” several boys start chanting suddenly. The word buzzes around, infecting the group with a jumpy anxiety at the approach of the master almost every boy fears with a passion. The great throng disintegrates spontaneously, boys whizzing off in every direction. Twenty seconds later Browning’s prone form is the only evidence of the actions that have taken place less than ten minutes ago.

Sherlock runs, Edward following hard on his heels and behind him he can hear Coach’s loud voice demanding: “What has been happening here? Browning, what are you doing lying on the ground like that? Hey Browning, wake up! By Jove, you’ve been fighting, what’s happened to you?”

***

Tap tap tap goes the pencil against Mrs Norton’s jaw. Sherlock stands at attention in front of her desk, his eyes level with hers. A smile starts tugging at the corners of her mouth. She sits back in the chair and rolls it away from the desk, dropping the pencil on the surface.

“So David slew Goliath and liberated the people of a great terror,” she says. Sherlock keeps staring at her, exerting himself to retain a perfectly neutral expression.

“You may relax,” Mrs Norton continues. “Do sit down, Sherlock. There’s no reason to stand there looking at me like that. You know perfectly well I’m quite aware of everything that’s happening in this school. Coach and the other masters may have no inkling about who the boy who knocked out Browning might be, but I do have. Let’s call it my women’s intuition.” Suddenly she raises her voice: “ _Sit down_ I told you, now!”

He scurries over to the chair in front of her desk and seats himself.

“Good boy,” she smiles at him. “Look here, I’m not angry with you. I think you’re very brave for having fought a boy who is so much bigger than you are and very smart for having beaten him. I don’t know what made you do it and I don’t need to know. I don’t _want_ to know.”

She rolls the chair back to the desk and drapes both her underarms on the top, clasping her hands.

“What I do know though,” she goes on, “is that both your mother, and more importantly, your brother, have entrusted this school, and thus me, with the care for your physical and mental well-being. You’ll have to admit picking a fight with a senior boy doesn’t exactly help to keep you safe?”

“No Mrs Norton,” Sherlock mumbles.

“I saw little Edward Winchester practically floating down the hallway with elation, so I guess the reason for your aggression has to do with him. Which is very noble of you, and I do admire you for it for we should always stand up for the weak. But in doing so you’ve been reckless and it might have ended very badly for you. I’d rather be spared another encounter with a livid Mycroft Holmes.” Sherlock shoots up straight in his chair upon hearing this information but Mrs Norton pretends not to notice and continues: “Once was more than enough to last me a lifetime. So please take my health into account in the future and try to refrain yourself from impetuous larks like these.’’

Now he has to smile as well. “Yes, Mrs Norton.” He would dearly like to ask her what it was Mycroft had told her exactly while he was lying in the sickbay but she’s already risen and started shooing him out of her office. 

“Fine, fine. I’m glad you see my point. Now that will be all. I do have other tasks awaiting me today. Off you go…”

He’s already outside in the corridor and turning to stroll off, the door behind him about to be closed when it’s suddenly pulled wide open again.

“Sherlock?”

“Yes, Mrs Norton.”

“I’m very proud of you, just so you know.”

“Yes, Mrs Norton. Thank you, Mrs Norton.”

They gaze at each other. At last she breaks the spell.

“All right, Sherlock. Fall out.”

She closes the door on him and he runs to his room to fetch his clothes for Mr Wilberforce’s fencing lesson.

***

As usual the school play is a big success. Mummy promised to come and watch, but of course she found an excuse at the last moment, inconveniencing everyone, Mycroft most of all. Mycroft is there however, and he has brought Nanny. Nanny embarrasses Sherlock hugely by clasping him in her arms in the middle of the dressing room – Percy-Smith, Willoughby and Fitzpatrick smirking in the background – tears streaming down her face, while she keeps declaring she’s raised a genius and if only Mummy could have seen him she would have been so proud of him. She ends up sprawling on a chair, dabbing at her eyes with her handkerchief and Mr Lowsley patting her hand and agreeing with her Sherlock is indeed a great actor.

Sherlock is less certain than her about Mummy’s opinion on his acting abilities but he would have been very happy if John could have seen him performing on the stage. If Mycroft went to all the trouble to arrange for his school to allow him to come watch the play and to organise for David to drive the Rolls to bring Nanny he doesn’t see why John couldn’t have come along as well. 

Mycroft rolls his eyes when Sherlock tells him so.

“Would you please stop talking about bringing John here?” he says in an exasperated tone. “It’s not possible, Sherlock. John is our gardener. He is _a servant_. People don’t bring their servants to school to watch their sons perform in the school play.”

“You wrote yourself you were sorry Mr Talbot wouldn’t come to watch. And Nanny is a servant as well and you brought _her_ along. I’m happy you did…”

“Mr Talbot was our tutor and he was very close to our father, so there’s a difference. And Nanny isn’t just a servant. She’s raised Mummy and she’s practically part of the family.”

“Well, John is practically part of the family as well…”

“No, he isn’t,” Mycroft interjects but Sherlock ignores him and carries on: “…and he would like to see me and I would like for him to watch me. He’s Daddy’s oldest friend and he’s my friend and I think you’re horrid for not allowing him to come here.”

Mycroft’s mouth has receded to a thin white stripe in his red face.

“Stop it,” he hisses. “I order you to stop this talk. I don’t want to hear another word.”

“You can’t order me!” Sherlock shouts. “You’re not my parent! The only reason you don’t want John to come here is because Mummy hates him and you don’t want to upset her. You’d rather upset me and John…”

“Sherlock, now listen…”

“No, I won’t!” He pulls the blonde wig from his head and throws it on the ground. Mycroft grips him by the upper arm and pulls him close; he lowers his face until their noses almost touch and whispers: “Cut the theatrics, would you? You’re not on the stage anymore. Everyone is looking at us and I won’t have you throwing a tantrum in public. We’ll talk about this later, at home. Now I want you to say goodbye to Nanny in a decent manner and then you can go to your room and cool down. I’ll be here next week together with Mr Mancini and in the meantime I don’t wish to waste another word on the subject.”

Mycroft gives his arm a shake for good measure before letting go of it. Sherlock doesn’t deign to give him another look. He flies towards the corner were Nanny is still seated with her handkerchief and throws his arms around her neck. She hugs him tight. “Oh Sherlock, oh my smart little boy, I’m so proud of you,” she repeats over and over. She’s blessedly unaware of the ugly scene that’s just taken place right in front of her eyes.

Sherlock can feel Mycroft’s gaze boring itself between his shoulder blades. He forces himself not to turn around; he won’t give Mycroft the satisfaction. He won’t.

***

Mycroft manages to evade the subject during the holidays and before Sherlock knows it, it’s his birthday and he’s standing beside John in front of Daddy’s grave, admiring the hellebores once more. 

Two years ago Daddy died. Just five more years and Sherlock will be fourteen and then he will only have known Daddy for half the time he lived. Or no, Sherlock doesn’t remember a thing about his early childhood. In his oldest memory he is trying to grab a bee, he didn’t know it was a bee then of course, and there’s John’s warm hand closing around his and telling him not to. 

Everything that happened to him before has been told him by others. Nanny is always relating he was such a serious baby, gazing around at everything, turning his head from one side to the other.

“Like you were observing us all. I remember it was a bit uncanny but I didn’t love you any the less for it. And then when you were four months old you could already roll yourself onto your tummy and back again. Such a marvel. Once you could do that there was no stopping you. You went off everywhere, crawling over the carpet so fast and getting hold of everything. Nothing was safe for you. Quite unlike Mycroft who was happy to sit wherever I planted him and wiggle about his little yellow plastic hammer.”

Nanny would smile then and pat his head.

“You however would go and investigate everything. If I put you in the playpen to have my hands free for a moment you would start an awful racket. That was about the only sound that came out of you for two years, mind you. You wouldn’t speak; you had us all fraught with worry. Mycroft’s first word was ‘Mummy’ and he said that at eight months.”

“And what was my first word, Nanny?” Though he already knows because she must have told him this same story a dozen times at least.

Nanny laughs. “Your first word was ‘mine’. You’d got hold of your Daddy’s violin bow somehow, I don’t even want to know how you managed to do that and Mummy tried to relieve you of it but you held it away from her and said: ‘mine’.”

“Now tell me how Daddy threw me into the air.”

“Oh, he was always doing that, giving Mummy such a fright. ‘Sherlock, don’t,’ she’d say. ‘What if you don’t catch him?’ but your Daddy would just laugh and throw you even higher and you would crow with delight, and smile at him and wave your little arms and legs about. The higher he threw you the harder you laughed.”

Sherlock can almost remember how that must have felt for he can still feel himself flying through the air as Daddy swung him away from him while standing in the sea. The perfect weightlessness he’d acquire for the whole three seconds that blessed state lasted, it must have been even better when he was a baby.

Such a pity he has to imagine he remembers it because he was too young to record it. The thought makes him want to cry. He shivers.

“How about going back and getting some hot cocoa into you?” John says.

“Yes John. Let’s,” Sherlock agrees and together they walk back to John’s bike. Once seated Sherlock lays his arms around John’s waist and rests his head against the solid security of John’s back. In that moment he misses Daddy, misses him so much.

***

“Okay, Sherlock. That was great, just great. That’s a great time you’ve given me.” 

Mr Wilberforce sits on his heels at the edge of the pool beaming at him. 

“Are you tired yet?”

Sherlock shakes his head.

“See how much stronger you are? And the fencing does help you in controlling your breathing while you’re in the water, doesn’t it? The body is nothing but a machine, Sherlock. A machine you can put to use in so many different ways. All the exercising you give it in one sport benefits its accomplishments in another one.”

Mr Wilberforce gets up. “I must be off and make some phone calls with regard to the upcoming competition in which this school is going to star. In the meantime you can practice your front crawl some more. Take it easy, keep it light. Don’t aim for speed, you’re fast enough as it is, but concentrate on leaving your whole body beneath the water’s surface. You’re still at war with the element. If you’d succumb to it you’d find the water will help you. I’ll be back in ten minutes.”

He walks off and Sherlock swims to the short side of the pool at a leisurely pace to start the exercise. He’s the only boy in the pool. Mr Wilberforce has decreed his future champions shouldn’t have to compete with each other for his attention during the training sessions. They’ve been exempted from all general physical exercise to fit them into the tight training schedule. Sherlock actually bounced with joy when Mr Wilberforce told him he wouldn’t have to partake in any field sports for the rest of the term. 

His feet find the wall and push him off and he starts swimming, giving himself over to the exercise, making sure his head and his bum stay beneath the surface while his arms slash through the water beside his head as efficient as a robot while his feet keep pushing him forward through the water like they’re a propeller attached to a small submarine. Or a torpedo, for that’s how fast he must be going, only breaking up with his head to the surface every twenty strokes to exhale the used air from his lungs and draw in a deep breath of fresh oxygen to speed him along. 

He’s just made his twelfth turn when his body is hit by a great weight, momentary obliterating his whole world. His mouth opens at the impact and he swallows a big gulp of water, trying to spit it out straightaway and reminding himself to snap his jaws closed again. At first he assumes the roof of the building has collapsed on top of him but when he opens his eyes he finds the water surrounding him is just as clear as it was three seconds ago. Somehow he’s far closer to the bottom of the pool. And there’s this stone on his back. Or no, he looks at his chest and sees the arms that are hugging him, squeezing him. Clothed arms, he recognises the sleeves of the school blazer. 

Someone has jumped on top of him and is now clinging to him like the giant octopus that rose out of the depths to fight Moby Dick. Sherlock tries prying the arms loose, using both hands on one huge arm but finds it’s useless, whoever is holding him is immensely strong and this way he’s just going to run out of air. Swallowing the water already cost him some air. 

The weight is suffocating him. Desperately, Sherlock sets his mind racing through possible solutions to save himself. Maybe he can wriggle himself out of the other’s grasp. After all, he’s unclothed except for his swimming trunks. 

Sherlock decides to play dead first to make the other relax his grip. He counts slowly in his head to five. _He needs air._ His tormentor doesn’t loosen his clutch one bit, he hasn’t gained himself a tenth of an inch of space between their tightly seized bodies but he has to make the attempt now or he’ll die from the lack of oxygen. His lungs are starting to burn inside his chest. He twists and jerks and in his head he’s screaming, screaming for help, screaming for his oppressor to let go of him, can’t he see he’s _killing_ him. _He needs air._

Suddenly he realises this person, whoever it is who is keeping him down, wants him to die, wants him to drown. _He needs air._ His lungs are burning, burning with the need of air and now the feeling has spread itself in his chest and his heart is burning as well. _He needs air._ His heart is burning out of him.

His body is still putting up a feeble fight but it’s useless. He’s going to die. _He needs air._ Oh, if only Daddy were here to haul him out of the water and lift him into the air. _He needs air._ High, high up into the air, towards the sunlight, the warm sunlight.

And then Daddy is there. In his swimming trunks and the cobalt-blue shirt he wore on the beach, except he’s not standing but he’s floating beneath Sherlock on the bottom of the pool. A huge smile lightens up his face. His arms open wide, beckoning Sherlock and he opens his mouth and he speaks: “Again Sherlock?”

Sherlock swims towards him. “Yes Daddy, please.”

“Come on then.”

And his father’s strong arms haul him out of the water, raising him high into the sky and then they fling him away with a mighty sway. He flies through the air, higher and higher and higher. Around him the air is getting thinner. But he finds he doesn’t need it anymore, he’s become a part of it, he _is_ air, and he continues to spiral upwards, a great booming noise is starting to fill his ears. Above him the great blackness of outer space looms ever nearer but he’s not afraid of it. The stars are awaiting there for him and all of a sudden they explode right in front of his eyes. He reaches with his hands to touch the colours, all the beautiful colours, yellow and blue and pink and green. Now he’s going even faster, right through the colours, and next he knows he breaks through the atmosphere and he’s surrounded by darkness. 

Floating in nothing but black, the deepest black he’s ever seen.


	10. Homo Homini Lupus est, chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John looks up, a dazed faraway look on his face. Sherlock feels like an intruder into another world where John was wandering – happily – judging by the vague smile lingering around the corners of his mouth.

John slowly slides up against the edge of the partition of the booth, using it for support while he rediscovers the use of his legs.

“Are you all right?” Sherlock enquires. John looks a little pale around the gills. Not that Sherlock can blame him; his own legs are shaking beneath him from the adrenaline rush.

“Yeah, fine,” John mutters. “Just give me a minute, would you?”

“Of course,” Sherlock replies. “Please. You’ve got the rest of your life.”

He meant it as a joke because right at that moment he feels nothing but relief – relief at being alive, relief at _John_ being alive, relief they’ve made it together through their confrontation with the utterly mad master criminal – when John explodes. Not literally, thank god, no possibility of that with the snipers gone and that infernal bomb parka lying useless on the tile floor but all of a sudden Sherlock finds himself confronted with five foot eight of irate army doctor.

“You moron!” John’s shouting at him. “Making stupid jokes at a time like this. You total _idiot_ of a fucked-up genius! We could have died here, you… you… you… _bloody damned git!_ What were you thinking, setting this up? Selling your country to a criminal? And you nicked my gun – again! How dare you?”

He heads for Sherlock, hurling himself straight into him and Sherlock reels on his legs.He feels himself losing his footing, arms flailing wildly, grabbing for anything to hold onto but all his hands find is this very small, very angry person who’s nothing but motion and together they crash into the waters of the pool, a huge splash surging over their heads.

His hands let go of John straight away to make for the surface but John stays below. Desperate, Sherlock takes a breath and is about to dip under to retrieve his friend from the bottom of the pool when he notices John is not drowning but swimming. Three seconds later he bobs up at the surface, holding up the memory stick. He swims over towards Sherlock and thrusts the stick at him.

“The Bruce-Partington plans,” he says. “Tomorrow you’re going to go to Mycroft and hand them over with your proper apologies for the delay in handing them back.”

He swims to the side of the pool and clambers up on it. 

“I hope a cab will take us with our clothes all wet,” he goes on. Sherlock snorts. John walks over to where he’s grabbed a hold of the side and is about to haul himself up. John waits till he’s halfway before giving him a casual shove, causing Sherlock to fall back into the pool with a splash. He looks up. In all his smallness John towers above him, a wrathful water god with the essence of his element running down in rivulets along his body. 

“I’m really not a big fan of indoor swimming pools, John,” Sherlock says, trying to keep it light.

John smiles, but it’s a smile without its usual warmth.

“I’m not a big fan of being abducted, be it by your brother or anyone else, or serving for a hostage, Sherlock. You might think I am, seeing as how I volunteered to go to Afghanistan but I assure you I’m really not.”

Treading water, Sherlock nods his understanding.

“Good. Now listen. I like participating in the game with you, any game, but I don’t appreciate ending up as one of the pieces. So next time you decide to accept the invitation to go and play with this sick fucker, with any sick fucker, you’re going to properly inform me. No more secrets, no more lying.”

“John. I…”

“No. Just no. Don’t say anything. Christ, I’ve been living with you for two months now and it’s madness. I know I’m mad. I should have ignored that first text you sent me, but I’m glad I didn’t because it’s been great. I wouldn’t have missed a minute. But this time you’ve gone too far, Sherlock. Gone way too far and I want to hear you say you have. Do you understand?”

“Yes, John,” he croaks. He tries to think. Maybe John is right, he doesn’t know. What he does know is that if he wants John to calm down and allow him to get out of this damned pool he’ll have to pretend to admit John is right. “I understand, John.”

At his words John’s features soften instantly.

“Fine. Here,” he reaches out with his hand to help Sherlock out of the water. 

Sherlock accepts the hand – John’s strong, secure hand. He understands it’s a miracle that hand is still there. He’d nearly lost it, nearly lost the person it forms a part of, the most important person in his life. Almost vanished, snatched away through his arrogance, his own bloody arrogance. _Christ._ He stands shaking with the realisation, water dripping from him to form a small pool on the tile floor.

John smiles up at him. “You look done in. Well, we _both_ got a nasty shock, I guess. Home then, for a hot shower and a cup of tea.”

Good John. Clever John. Oh god, only imagine if he’d lost him.

***

“Sherlock? Sherlock darling? Sherlock my boy?”

The sounds come from far away. Very, very far away.

“Sherlock? Can you hear me, darling? Do you hear my voice? If you do, give me a tweak, my boy? Just the tiniest tweak so I know you’ve heard me?”

_Who is… What is… Oh…_

“I’m certain you can hear me, Sherlock. Because you’ve got a little more colour today. Don’t you agree, Valerie? He’s looking better. Sherlock, my darling boy. It’s Nanny speaking to you. If you do understand it’s Nanny, just move your fingers a little over my hand. I know you can do that, just try.”

_Nanny? What? It’s just past half term. What’s Nanny doing… And Mummy?_

“Oh, Sherlock darling, please react. Please do, my boy. The doctors say they’re sure you can hear me…”

_Well, they’re right for I can. But what doctors? Why? And why is everything so dark? Oh, because my eyes are closed, of course. Open them._

He finds that’s easier said than done but with a great strength of will he manages to draw his eyelids apart at long last to find Nanny’s face hovering close above him.

“Nanny,” he starts. His voice sounds all wrong, like there’s a crick in it and it hurts to speak and then all hell breaks loose. Nanny starts shouting in near hysterics and seizing him and calling: “Nurse! Nurse! Oh Valerie, oh darling, he said something. Oh god, he’s awake, he’s alive!” Sherlock feels himself raised from where he was apparently lying and clutched with vehement passion against Nanny’s ribcage. At the same time she keeps hitting at something with her right arm and he understands she’s aiming at a button next to the bed. 

The bed isn’t his dorm bed or the bed in the sick ward. The sheets smell institutional though and the walls of the room are a sickening institutional faint off-white. Now two women and a man in white clothes come rushing into the room.

“When?” the man asks.

“Just now,” Nanny breathes. Sherlock is wrung from her arms by the two women and laid back on the bed again. “Just now. He said my name. Oh Valerie, he said my name. He’s well again. He’s alive.”

She turns towards Mummy who’s standing in the corner farthest away from the bed, grappling vaguely with her hands near her throat.

“No,” Mummy says. “No, he isn’t alive. He’s dead, don’t you know that? He’s dead.”

***

“Sherlock?”

Mycroft’s speaking to him, and his hand is covering Sherlock’s. Sherlock opens his eyes. 

“Hello Mycroft.”

Visible relief surges over Mycroft’s face. He squeezes Sherlock’s hand so hard it hurts. “Hello, little brother,” he says. His voice sounds off-key and husky. He grips Sherlock’s hand even tighter. “Thank god you’re here again.”

“Yes.”

“Nanny is still hysterical with happiness. Well, we are _all_ relieved and happy. You were gone for a long time, Sherlock. We were seriously worried for you, even though the doctors were quite confident throughout there would be no permanent damage. But you were down in that water for a long time.”

“Water?”

“Yes, don’t you remember what happened, Sherlock? You were swimming and you were jumped on by another boy.He tried to drown you. He nearly succeeded. Mr Wilberforce discovered you and dragged you out of the water just in time.” Mycroft is struggling to sound even and keep a composed face while he’s saying this.“The boy has been expelled of course. It appeared he held quite a grudge against you for being beaten by you in a fight.”

He looks at Sherlock and now exasperation distorts his face. “I saw the boy. What in heaven’s name possessed you to engage in a fight with a boy so much bigger than you are? Must you grab every opportunity to endanger yourself in such a reckless manner?”

“Browning attacked Edward for no reason. I couldn’t let that pass.”

“Edward can defend himself, can’t he?”

“No, he can’t. Edward is nothing but a snivelling, weak coward.”

“If you think so… Sherlock, if you’re going to spend your life protecting snivelling weak cowards against themselves you have a rather busy time ahead of you.”

Under Mycroft’s glare Sherlock starts plucking at the sheets. It’s rather unfair Mycroft is so angry with him. He won the fight, won it fair. It isn’t Sherlock’s fault Browning should turn out to be a bad loser and a lowly cheat.

In his chair next to the bed Mycroft sighs unhappily. He draws his hand over his face and uses it to pick Sherlock’s hands away from the sheets, bringing up his other hand to shelter Sherlock’s in the cage of his palms.

“You are…” Mycroft says. He stops and looks long and hard at Sherlock before continuing: “You are one of the bravest people I know. What you did, standing up for your dorm mate, was very honourable, Sherlock. I’m exceedingly proud of you for stepping forward to look after someone who’s unable to do so himself…” (Sherlock’s hands are given a tight squeeze) “…except in this instant, Sherlock, bravery was akin to stupidity for you hadn’t studied your opponent as thoroughly as you should have. Had you done so you would have acknowledged him as someone unwilling to face his fall from grace.Someone who would go to great lengths to revenge himself upon you. Christ, Sherlock… When they called…”

Mycroft grips his hand so hard Sherlock’s fingers go numb. He tries to wriggle his hand free from Mycroft’s but stops when he catches sight of Mycroft’s eyes. Big wet drops cling tohis lashes and Mycroft is blinking hard to shove the tears back and keep them from welling up.

“…I was certain for a moment I’d lost you,” he concludes. He lets go of Sherlock’s hand and wipes his eyes.

“Just don’t ever do that again, please,” he says and smiles.

***

“Do you want some more tea, John?”

“Have you contacted Mycroft yet?”

Sherlock sighs his most put-upon sigh and rolls his eyes.

“No, I haven’t. The moment I text him he’ll stop boring the hell out of whoever he is boring the hell out of and materialise himself here to bore the hell out of us. I didn’t want to spoil your breakfast for you.”

John huffs and downs the last of his tea. “Well, I’m done. Besides, I told you to take them to him.”

“I won’t have the chance.” He holds out his phone for John to read the text he’s entered while they were talking.

_Bruce-Partington plans found. Some slight water damage. When and where would you like me to hand them over? SH_

“That will do,” confirms John. Sherlock presses the _send_ button and tucks the mobile into his dressing gown pocket.

“Will you hand me _The Sun_?”

Sherlock ignores John’s startled look. “So I read _The Sun_ every now and then. As far as I know that’s not a criminal offence,” the doctor had huffed when Sherlock had deplored having a flatmate who read a paper that confirmed daily that his analysis of humankind being nothing but a huge waste of oxygen was quite correct. Being caught while glancing over the printed insult to intelligence is also a very effective means to riling an annoying older brother, but surely that is a detail John doesn’t need to be informed of.

Thankfully John’s only comment while handing Sherlock the paper, is: “Aren’t you going to get dressed? You might be summoned any minute.”

“I’ve always wondered why people consider Mycroft to be a master of unexpected twists and turns. I find his actions exceedingly predictable most of the time,” Sherlock enjoins. He stands and grabs the paper himself, walks over to the sofa and flops down on it, pretending to absorb himself in the details of the disintegrating marriage of some Hollywood celebrity.

“Jesus Christ,” he can hear John mutter. He doesn’t react. John stands up and starts clearing the breakfast table. Out of the kitchen comes the sound of the fridge door being opened and shut rather fiercely several times, followed by the clatter of dishes being scrubbed and clonked down on the counter with unnecessary force.

The sound of the bell rings through the house. John peeks into the living room.

“I suggest you go and open the door,” he says.

“Yoohoo, I’ll get it,” Mrs Hudson calls. Sherlock delves into his pocket for the memory stick and holds out his arm like a runner bearing the Olympic flame,pretending to be engrossed in the antics of a couple that must have spent their married life outdoing each other in acts of vulgarity.

One minute later Mrs Hudson enters the room with a relieved-looking Mycroft in tow.

“Ah Mycroft,” Sherlock says. “A surprise visit.An unexpected pleasure indeed.”

“I had just made you boys some rock cakes,” Mrs Hudson tells them. “I’ll pop down and get them for you. They’re still nice and warm.”

“Please don’t bother, Mrs Hudson,” he addresses her. “Mycroft’s on a diet. I’ll admit it doesn’t seem to have any effect. However, it would be a bit cruel to force him to watch us munch your delicious cakes while he would have to content himself with a coffee with skimmed milk and a Candarel.”

The memory stick is snatched from his hand. He lets his arm drop.

“A rock cake sounds like just the thing, Mrs Hudson.” Mycroft is all suave pleasantness towards their landlady. 

Mrs Hudson blinks her eyelashes rapidly with a dazed, happy look on her face. “I’ll go get them. And I’ll fetch my cardigan, it’s cold in here,” she says and turns to go down the stairs. There’s definitely a spring in her step.

Sherlock sighs. “No wonder you’re still putting on weight.” 

Mycroft ignores him and walks over to the kitchen. 

“Hello John.”

At least John is a bit less enthusiastic in his greeting than Mrs Hudson. This doesn’t prevent Mycroft from being ensconced in John’s chair five minutes later with Mrs Hudson serving him coffee and chattering happily away at him before seating herself in Sherlock’s chair.

Sherlock regards the cosy scene with disgust. He swings over his legs and adjusts himself to a sitting position so he can properly glare at Mycroft who keeps nodding his head and humming appreciatively as Mrs Hudson tells him all about the doily-making-classes she’s started attending together with Mrs Turner and the youngest of her married ones, Dick, who’s really such a nice young man.

“Shouldn’t you be off to start a minor war somewhere, Mycroft?” Sherlock enquires. “One with not too many civilian casualties, of course, just a lot of damaged buildings and so on.”

Mycroft retrieves his pocket watch from his waistcoat pocket – an affectation that deepens Sherlock’s loathing of his brother each time the instrument is pulled forth – and pretends to study the dial. “Not for the next half hour,” he decrees eventually. Mrs Hudson looks shocked for half a second before tittering nervously. John’s smile is faintly amused. Sherlock sighs and slumps against the back of the sofa, staring daggers at the ceiling.

“Tell me,” Mycroft continues, “‘some slight water damage’. How did that happen?”

“It fell into a pool.”

“It fell into a pool?” Mycroft’s eyebrows rise. 

“Yes. It rained quite extensively between nine and eleven yesterday evening in case you hadn’t noticed. Why in heaven’s name do you insist on carrying that umbrella everywhere if you never have to make use of it?”

“I was attending a dinner for the Russian ambassador. The thought of organising a picnic in St James Park had occurred but was dismissed on account of it being a bit too early in the season.”

Sherlock snorts. “Haha, very droll. While you were stuffing yourself, John and I were doing our bit for Queen and country. Unfortunately during the struggle to obtain the classified information your moronic minions insist on carrying around London for all kinds of criminals to find and take advantage of, the stick fell into a pool. As usual you’re making a fuss out of nothing. You said this wasn’t the only copy.”

“It _isn’t_. I was just curious. Where did you find it?”

“Lestrade will be happy to give you all the details I can’t concern myself with. Now just go, would you? I told you I was extremely busy when you asked me to find your boring mislaid secret missile program for you. I still am, even more so. I find myself burdened with the necessity to hunt down a criminal mastermind all of a sudden.”

Mycroft purses his lips but refrains from commenting. Instead he rises from his chair, twirls his umbrella and bends down to plant a kiss on Mrs Hudson’s hand.

“John, Sherlock,” he nods and is gone.

Sherlock heaves a sigh of relief and collapses on the sofa again. Mrs Hudson fixates him with her sternest gaze. 

“You could try and behave yourself when your brother is around, you know? He’s a perfectly nice gentleman. He said he would pay for the new windows; he wants them to be ballistic glass or something like that. And you’re a nice boy. He’s about the only family you have. I really don’t see why you should act so hostile towards him. ”

Behind her John splutters into his coffee.

Sherlock glares at her before stretching himself out, drawing the fleur-de-lys cushion under his head for comfort, choosing to refrain from answering. He closes his eyes.

“Christ,” he mutters.

***

“Oh John, they’re beautiful.”

John’s contented grin almost splits his face in two. ‘Yeah, they’re way too early but I put them behind glass and that did it for them. Shall I put them over here in the windowsill?”

“Yes please.”

After John has arranged the big pot of tulips and forget-me-nots to his liking, he starts inspecting the ‘get well soon’ cards that are hanging over Sherlock’s bed. 

“My, that’s a lot of cards you’ve got, Sherlock. And such nice drawings. I like this one.”

He points at Edward’s drawing. It isn’t too bad actually; it’s an action scene in which Sherlock strikes Browning on the chin. Beneath it Edward has written ‘You’re a Hero’.

John smiles. “You’re a hero, Sherlock.”

“Oh,” Sherlock waves his hand. “I don’t think heroes exist, John. Only in stories. I’m certainly not one of them. I was angry, that’s all.”

“And brave,” John adds.

“Yes, but Mycroft said bravery is nothing but stupidity and I guess he’s right.”

John says nothing but a frown appears on his forehead. Sherlock doesn’t like the frown so he decides to spill the big news to John now.

“I don’t have to go back to school till the next term,” he says. “The doctors have said I need a lot of rest.”

“I’ll admit you look a little pale around the gills. Still, I had expected worse after hearing what had happened. But are you really not to go to school for such a long time? That’s over a month you’ll miss out on.”

“Yes. However, I’m so far ahead of the rest of the class it doesn’t really matter. The only drawback is I won’t get to act in the play and I won’t be participating in the school concert. Well, and the swimming competition but I don’t know whether I really mind missing out on that one.”

On his chair John nods. 

“Mycroft said I could decide what I wanted to do and I told him I wanted to go to the seaside again. So Mycroft booked us a hotel for the next three months. Cook doesn’t know yet but she’s to accompany us for Nanny must stay with Mummy and Mummy said she never wants to be near the seaside again.”

“Oh,” John says. Naturally he doesn’t know why Mummy doesn’t like the sea and Sherlock doesn’t think he should explain this reaction of Mummy’s was exactly the one he hoped for when he informed Mycroft of his wish. Sherlock had congratulated himself silently when Mycroft had brought him the news of Mummy’s refusal to join them with a crestfallen look on his face.

“Mr Mancini has promised he will come as well for a few weeks. Mycroft has booked him a room.”

“And Mr Talbot?”

“Mr Talbot wrote he won’t come. He considers visiting me an act of disloyalty to the boy he’s tutoring now. I believe I can understand that. I just … I hate Mummy all the more for it, for sending me off to that stupid school and taking Mr Talbot away from me.”

“Sherlock? No! What are you saying? Hating your mother? What kind of talk is that?”

“I don’t see why you’re all upset, John. I think it’s only natural I should hate her for she hates me. And you… I don’t see why you should defend her?”

“Yes… well… For God’s sake… begging your pardon, Sherlock. You _can’t_ say you hate your mother. She’s your mother. You’re her child. Parents love their children and children love their parents. I’ll admit she does act a little strange every now and then. But she’s ill; she’s lost the man she loved… “

“Stop it, John, please. Or you’ll make me all upset with you and I don’t want that. Besides, you have to listen to my news. For you are to come and stay with us, John. Mycroft agreed you needed a holiday as well as we all do and you can come and stay for two weeks. Aren’t you glad?”

***

He’s reluctant to enter the water at first but Mycroft promises he will stay near him at all times. The sea feels different from the pool and smells different as well, better, the salty invigorating scent he remembers and after three days he can swim all by himself again. He sets himself a quick breaststroke every morning, dipping his head under at regular intervals to study the bottom of the sea with its ever-shifting sand and the small fish darting about, nervously shooting away in all directions as his shadow shrouds them in temporary darkness.

Cook stands waiting with a big towel when he gets out of the water. He still tires easily so he lets her rub him dry like he’s a small baby and he settles himself into her lap, against all the soft warm flesh. Her arms envelop him and wrap him up in her scent, the fuzzy peach perfume of her skin overlaid with a smear of salt. He looks out at the sea that dips and rises like the wide chest he’s resting against until drowsiness overtakes him and he falls asleep, basking in the warmth of Cook’s generous body and the sunrays dancing on his cheeks.

***

“Not so fast, Sherlock. I’m an old man.” 

Sherlock looks up at Mr Mancini who’s panting and chugging beside him, sweat streaming from beneath his straw hat. He looks faintly ridiculous, and very old indeed. 

“How old are you, Mr Mancini?”

“I’m seventy-five years of age, Sherlock. I was in my thirties when your Daddy first came to me as a young boy to start his lessons.”

“Seventy-five years! You’re ancient!”

Mr Mancini huffs. “It’s not that bad. But you succeed in making me feel ancient if you insist we tear up this dune like a pair of madmen.”

Sherlock grinds to a halt. “We can sit awhile if you want to, Mr Mancini.”

“Yes, I’d like that once we’ve reached the top of the dune so we can watch out over the sea. After all, that was the whole purpose of the exercise, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, but you mustn’t exert yourself.”

“Don’t worry my boy. I may be ancient but I’m not dead yet.”

***

“Are you having a good time, Sherlock?”

“Yes Mycroft. Very much. Thank you.”

“I see Mr Talbot managed to put you on a sticky wicket.” Mycroft raises his eyebrows while throwing a glance at the travel chess set perching on Sherlock’s lap.

“Yes, he did. He wrote me I could take as long as I needed to make my next move.”

“Have you considered moving your knight?”

“I have, but that would only lead to exposing my queen after the next six moves.”

Mycroft studies the small board for a moment. Then he chuckles and pats Sherlock on the head. “And so it would. That’s marvellous, Sherlock. It’s wonderful you can see that.”

He seats himself next to Sherlock, and opens his book. After two minutes he closes it again and makes to stand before deciding to stay put. He squirms, excuses himself, sighs and bursts forth at last: “Mr Wilberforce sent me a letter to ask whether I thought you could be persuaded to resume swimming in the next term.”

“Oh.”

“He’s quite anxious to have you back on the team. I confess my first reaction upon reading his letter was a feeling of outrage, even though he’s been totally decent and apologised properly. Mrs Norton has pleaded quite eloquently on his behalf as well. I know you trust her and I confess she’s shown herself to be a very sensible woman after that first… well, unpleasantness. I won’t guide you towards a decision. It’s yours to make.”

“Oh,” Sherlock says again. He’s thought about it already, he’s known all along the question would be raised. Except he would have preferred it if the question had been put to him directly. He’d already decided for himself he would stay on the swimming team. Now he’s less sure.

Mycroft sits waiting patiently. 

“I’ll think about it,” Sherlock answers him. “I will write to Mr Wilberforce myself.”

“Fine.” With that one word Mycroft stands. “I know you’re not a coward, Sherlock,” he adds and walks out of the room.

So much for not pushing people into a certain direction.

***

All too soon the summer ends and he finds himself back at the school again. He’s called into the Headmaster’s office on the first day and they both endure five uncomfortable minutes in each other’s presence before he’s dismissed and allowed to go back to his room. The moment the door falls closed behind him he heaves a sigh of relief.

Mrs Norton is the next one who invites him to visit. The moment he enters she raises herself from behind her desk and swoops down on him to plant a kiss on his forehead.

“My dear Sherlock. I’m so happy to see you looking so well and in good health again. I was so worried for you even though your brother assured me you we’re fully recovered. How do you feel?”

“I’m fine. Thank you, Mrs Norton.”

“Do sit down,” she waves with her hand in the direction of the chair in front of her desk. “I’ll make us some tea. I want to know all about your holiday. Mycroft told me you went to the seaside, you and your family.”

“Yes. Mycroft arranged it all. Cook stayed with us for Nanny had to stay with Mummy.”

“Oh,” Mrs Norton looks taken aback a moment. “Your mother didn’t come with you then, how odd."

“Mummy doesn’t like the sea.”

“I see,” Mrs Norton says in a tone that indicates quite clearly she doesn’t.She busies herself with making the tea and puts down two mugs and a plate of digestives on her desk. “Go ahead, Sherlock. You can have as many as you like.”

Dutifully he picks up a biscuit and starts munching on it. Mrs Norton sits observing him for a moment. Her next words show she’s decided to skip the subject of his life at home for the time being.

“You were sorely missed, Sherlock,” Mrs Norton continues. “Mr Lowsley kept complaining and poor little Edward had to cry once he understood you wouldn’t return before the holidays. However, Mr Wilberforce is the worst off. The awful guilt burdening that man, it’s a pity to behold. Even after your brother assured him your mother and he understood it was an unfortunate accident that boy happened to observe you all alone in the pool while walking past and deciding on the spur of the moment to revenge himself.”

She takes a pensive sip of her tea. 

“You really should go to Mr Wilberforce straightaway so he can see for himself you’re well. Your brother informed me you would join the swimming team again. To be frank I hadn’t expected anything less from you. You never struck me as a child that would yield to the fears a nasty experience might have foisted upon you.”

The biscuits are rather nice so Sherlock picks up another and takes a bite. Speaking with your mouth full is bad manners so he has manoeuvred himself into not being allowed to comment, which fits him perfectly well right now. Mrs Norton smiles and nods at him.

“I do feel very sorry for Browning’s parents, though. They behaved beautifully, very dignified, but they were shaken pitifully, blaming themselves… Which really was… Quite often we have to accept things don’t work out as we would have wanted them to. The poor people. Mycroft was decent to them throughout, they leaned on him, almost, and he really was the one who pulled us through the whole unpleasant business. But oh, the look he threw that boy…”

Sherlock nods.

“All I can say is I hope you do realise how blessed you are to have him for your brother,” Mrs Norton concludes.

“I do, Mrs Norton.”

Mrs Norton smiles. “That’s good, Sherlock. Now,” she claps her hands and rubs them together, “a new year awaits us. I suggest you first go find out whether Edward has arrived yet to quieten his fears for your health and safety. Visit Mr Wilberforce after to take a dip together with him in the pool straightaway. Stifle any lingering doubts you might have about the sanity of your decision which was for a large part Mycroft’s, wasn’t it?”

She laughs when she sees the startled look on his face.

“You Holmes boys aren’t the only smart ones around here. Off you go now, I have more to do today.”

***

Mr Fallon has a very good surprise waiting for him in the schoolroom.

“Thought you would be pleased,” he smiles while Sherlock stands fingering the desk eagerly, eyes flying everywhere. “I thought it would be a really nice distraction for you, your own forensic lab, so to speak. Feel free to wander over here whenever you’ve finished your work in class and are getting bored. Though I’d prefer you only use the chemical equipment when I can spare you a moment.”

“It’s marvellous, Mr Fallon,” Sherlock breathes. “Thank you so much.”

“You don’t have to thank me. Not now. Though I would appreciate it if you’d remember to name me when you collect your Nobel prize.”

***

Sherlock reads the letter again before letting it drop on the bed. He swings his legs over the side and walks over to the window. Outside it’s raining hard, the wind preparing itself to morph into a storm, chasing after the leaves it has ripped off the branches of the trees behind the dorm house. 

He picks up the paper and sets his gaze travelling over the sentences once more.

_Mummy has informed me she wishes to celebrate Christmas in style this year. She’s doing this for us, to announce to the world the Holmes’s are still at large, waiting in the wings to step out and help rule England once we’re ready. I would be most pleased to learn from Mummy she has received your long letter in which you have thanked her kindly for taking our interests to heart._

The house will be filled to the brink with all those awful smirking people again, bringing their horrid children that he will be expected to entertain. There will hardly be any time left to spend with John and his violin lessons are going to be cancelled for five days at least. Sherlock fails to see why he should have to thank his mother for inconveniencing him so thoroughly.

“Hello, Sherlock.”

He turns around. Edward has entered the room carrying his sports bag. He starts pulling out the filthy clothes and stashing them in his washing bag.

“Are you and your family doing anything special for Christmas?” Sherlock asks.

***

His idea works brilliantly. Edward is honoured to act as a host on Sherlock’s behalf, engaging the other children in games that are invariably dull beyond belief. Sherlock puts on a show of attending, sneaking off after half an hour. John berates him when he turns up at the shed but Sherlock can see his stern admonitions are only forwarded for form’s sake. John invariably relents and they sit sipping their tea, chewing on nicked mince pies or anchovy paste sandwiches before they start another boxing lesson or start together on one of the endless small repairs of the gardening tools that are always awaiting John’s attention.

Mycroft’s disapproving gaze wanders over to him repeatedly but he blithely ignores this. He lets all the women tousle his hair and rub his shoulders and doesn’t protest or express his disgust as he endures their insipid gushing of what a truly handsome boy he has become, resembling his poor departed father so much, and oh will he really only be ten in two weeks time, he looks so much bigger, his mother must be so proud of him. They’re all boring and stupid and Sherlock loathes them but he keeps smiling because Mycroft expects him to, while driving his nails hard into the heels of his palms to lock the insincere expression on his face.

Whenever he glances at Mummy he sees her hands are balled up likewise in her lap, her engaging smile fixed firmly around her mouth. Sherlock almost feels sorry for her. A frown fleets over her features the few times she catches sight of him, the gauze veil that transforms him into his father fluttering above her head, threatening to fall and wrap itself around her reason. Nanny hovers close to her at all times, pressing her arm with furtive little gestures every now and then. To spare them all the agony of Mummy making a spectacle of herself in front of their guests he attempts to ensure her back is turned on him at all times. At dinner he and the other children are seated at a separate table, further minimising the chances of his form disrupting her equilibrium, allowing her to play her role of demure widow and loving mother. All their female guests admire her and the male guests adore her, flitting around her like insignificant moths around a bright flame winking at them in a cold and starless night.

The only one actually enjoying himself appears to be Mycroft. He orbits the rooms endlessly, ingratiating himself with the women, chatting with the men, disappearing with one or two of them into Daddy’s study to emerge some time later, wearing a shining armour of satisfaction. Sherlock has to pinch his arm to remind himself his brother is only seventeen years of age, so perfectly does Mycroft blend in with the men who are all so much older than he.

As the days go by the feeling grows on Sherlock this is what his Christmas holidays are destined to become in the next few years. Mummy and he will have to suffer this invasion of their home every year; all for the sake of Mycroft. Too bad they can’t bond and giggle together every now and then while living through their ordeal. Now they both have to bear the brunt of Mycroft’s ambition on their own.

***

Some days it’s so bad. Those are the days he fears the most. Upon waking he knows straightaway nothing but misery lies ahead of him. Nothing but another twenty-four hours of stultifying boredom.

He wants to punch Warburton’s and Pleasance’s wishy-washy faces, wipe away the stupid smirks with one decisive whack. Edward’s total inoffensiveness saves him from being dealt this castigation, but only by a narrow margin. At the breakfast table the weak tea and smell of toast and Weetabix send a jolt of nausea to his stomach and he sits gagging quietly with his hands clamped in front of his face until they’re finally allowed to get up and start the day. 

The classes are agony, spent either filling sheet after sheet of paper with mathematical formulas, or all the elements of the periodic table in alphabetical order or arranged according to their rarity. At other times big heaps of dead insects end up on the sheets, only to be ripped up into the tiniest paper flakes and be swept into the wastepaper basket. 

Between classes he sits in a toilet cubicle sobbing with exhaustion and the tediousness of it all, resting his aching head against the plasticised board, desperate for the classes to end so he can go and find some relief. When he’s finally allowed to run away from the stupefying maelstrom of tedious routine he’s nearly incapacitated and he finds his legs are barely able to support him any longer. He staggers to the copse at the farthest end of the school’s terrain and throws himself onto the ground to claw at the dank dark earth and howl out his wretchedness.

The idea this will be his life for the years to come makes him slash at the trees with the thickest branch he can find, punishing them for standing there and ignoring him, thriving in their obliviousness of the world and his need. Endless stretches of time ahead of him with nothing to enliven the tedium but Mr Talbot’s letters, his violin, some experimenting in Mr Fallon’s makeshift lab, the school plays and the holidays. Each crack is accompanied with a shriek of rage to give some relief to the fury that’s pulsing through his whole body. He’s hooked up to an electricity circuit and his torturers flip the switch on and off at random intervals, never giving him a chance to prepare himself for the next jolt of pure pain.

How is he going to survive so many empty hours? If only he could get hold of something, anything to make it through those hours without being aware of them. To drift in empty nothingness; re-engaging with his surroundings only when something interesting is going on. Somehow that would make life much more bearable.

The trees bear the blows stoically. He trashes them until he can’t lift his arm anymore and stands panting, unable to hold onto the branch which drops from his powerless hands before he collapses onto the ground. There he rests, staring up with blind eyes, through the leaves at the unrelenting sky but somehow his exertions have blunted the sharp edges of the ache. A fuzzy buzz floats through his mind now, pertaining close to his ideal of heightened insensitivity. His own secret grotto high up in the mountains where he can hide and look down upon the world; feeling nothing but perceiving everything.

Sometimes it rains and yet he lays there, the damp rising from the earth, the drops accumulating on the surface of his clothes and morphing into a wet sheet of water that sinks through his blazer, and sweater, and shirt and trousers until the shivers start running through his body and he can’t stop his teeth from chattering.

One afternoon it snows, the snowflakes slowly drifting down out of a leaden sky, blanketing him until he becomes one with the earth and surely this is what death must feel like.

However, he doesn’t die. He’s destined to live on and endure, to carry on and live day in, day out.

That’s the moment he raises himself to a sitting position and crawls over towards a tree to rest his back against its sturdy solidness, leaning his head back while he tries to gather his wits. The worst of the crisis has passed now. All he can do is hope the next one won’t arrive too soon.

He stands and lets go of the protection of the tree to stumble back to the school buildings. By the time he catches sight of the pool house he can walk properly again. He plasters a blank look on his features, swipes at his clothes, takes a deep breath, briefly closing his eyes for the last time. Then he’s ready to confront the world once more.

***

At long last it’s summer again and Sherlock’s free to roam his own realm. Mycroft stays with friends for three weeks, which is far too long, but his answer to Sherlock’s complaint was Sherlock should have got himself an invitation or have asked a friend to stay over at theirs.

Once Mycroft turned and walked away Sherlock huffed with exasperation. Friends, what friends? He doesn’t _have_ friends at the school. Edward has invited him but he has declined – naturally – and appeased Edward with the request to spend the next Christmas with the Holmes’s again.

The first few days without Mycroft were very strange, an emptiness aching deep inside his stomach but he’s adapted himself to the apparent inevitability of Mycroft’s absence. Any potential awkwardness with Mummy he circumvents by avoiding her. By tacit agreement with Cook he takes all his meals with her and John in the kitchen. Nanny has agreed with a sigh this might be the best solution for everyone concerned. She shares a tray with Mummy, upstairs in Mummy’s room. 

Sherlock wallows in his freedom. John has bought him his own bike, second-hand but it’s good enough, and they visit Daddy’s grave every week to pull out the weeds that thrive in the warm weather. Other days he helps John in the kitchen garden; together they give the shed a new coat of paint. One afternoon they inspect the busy handiwork of the bees, lifting the combs that are already dripping with honey.

Each day he ends with a long swim in the small lake, gliding through the clear fresh water which is so much better than the chlorinated waters of the swimming pool at school. He will never enjoy those waters again. He speeds through them like a rocket let loose, desperate to be done and exit them. They inspire him with a deep fear which he won’t divulge, not even to himself, because of its irrationality. After all he was nearly drowned in the lake while still very young and the sea was ready to swallow and close its lapping surface above his head a few years later and he isn’t afraid of those. Maybe it’s the smell. Or the amount of water he’s swallowed. He doesn’t want to ponder the reason too much. It’s his new reality: he hates the swimming pool. 

For now he can swim in the lake lying hidden amidst the gentle trees. So he does, splashing and diving into the waters. 

***

At the end of another long day, Cook and Sherlock are sitting at the small table set up on the small terrace next to the kitchen door. The food on the table in front of them smells delicious: sausages and baked potatoes, sweet oven-roasted carrots and a tossed salad in a big bowl. In the kitchen Sherlock has already spotted the strawberry pavlova for dessert.

“Where is that man?” Cook asks in an exasperated voice. “He’s always so punctual. It’s half past. He should be here, ready to attack his meal.”

She stands, sits down again, stands and walks to the edge of the terrace, fingering the bright pink plastic flower that adorns her earlobe.

“Why don’t you go and run to the shed, Sherlock? Tell him he’s wanted here to eat his dinner and we’re not going to wait for him any longer.”

Sherlock nods and sets off, tearing through the kitchen garden, over the turf, past the little copse. As he nears the shed he spots John seated on the bench in front of it, enjoying the warm rays of the sun, busy with his whittling knife. 

“John,” Sherlock shouts, “John! We’re waiting for you. Cook is right angry with you for forgetting about dinner.”

John looks up, a dazed faraway look on his face. Sherlock feels like an intruder into another world where John was wandering – happily – judging by the vague smile lingering around the corners of his mouth.

“Sherlock?” he croaks. He hides the block of wood he’s working on in his lap.

“What are you doing, John?” Sherlock asks, fixing his gaze on the block that John has worked into an egg-like shape covered with elaborate whorls and curls like the back of a head. “Are you making a statue? Of whom?”

“Nothing,” John returns hastily. “I’m doing nothing, Sherlock. Just whittling. I forgot the time;I guess the sun made me a bit drowsy. I hadn’t realised it’s so late.”

“It’s all right, John. Except Cook made you the sausages you like so much. And we have strawberry pavlova for dessert.”

John rises, clasping the wood to his chest. “I’ll come. I’ll just clear this away.”

“Why won’t you let me see what you were doing, John?”

“Oh, you wouldn’t want to,” John tells him. He hurries into the shed and stashes the block on the highest shelf above the bench, out of Sherlock’s reach. “Shall we be off?”

Sherlock looks up towards the shelf before turning to find John holding out his hand to him.

“I’m not a little boy anymore,” Sherlock grumbles but grasps John’s hand anyway, relishing the clasp of the strong callused palm around his fingers.

The next morning he rises early and makes his way to the shed that lies glowing in the morning sun, empty and quiet. He unlocks the door and gazes up at the shelf but the block of wood is gone. He searches the shed methodically but can’t find it anywhere. Even the knife has been cleared away.

***

End of book II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the end of book II. Sherlock is ten years old now. The next book will cover the period from age ten till around age 18.
> 
> Huge thanks to everyone who has been reading and commenting so far. Your very kind and encouraging comments have been lovely, insightful, given me ideas and generally kept me wishing to continue this.
> 
> Thank you!


End file.
